


Would You Still Love Me If The Clocks Could Go Backwards?

by em2mb



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Gen, Made-Up Marvel Science, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 67,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6145560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/em2mb/pseuds/em2mb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“The least of our problems?” Peggy repeats. Evidently her husband’s gone mad. “The least of our problems? Daniel, need I remind you there’s no such thing as a trivial quantity of Zero - ”</em><br/> <br/><em>That’s when Steve Rogers enters the room.</em></p><p><em>Peggy blinks. Just how hard </em>had<em> she hit her head?</em></p><p>All Peggy wanted was to spend a relaxing weekend in Malibu with her husband. She probably should have specified in what year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_Malibu, six weeks after the Battle of New York_ **

“I didn’t realize Stark Industries was an early pioneer in prosthetics,” says Bruce, dipping down to take a closer look at Howard’s notes. He raps the yellowing paper with one knuckle. “This is dated 1965 yet features a rudimentary microprocessor knee.” He pulls off his glasses. “Why not bring this to market? Amputees had to wait another 30 years for tech this good.”

Tony snorts. “Let’s see,” he says, rummaging through one of a dozen full-to-bursting filing cabinets, “what’s the profit margin for bettering lives?” He presses a finger to his lips, then wags it when Bruce opens his mouth. “Ah! Ah! Ah! I know this one.”

The scientist crosses his arms. “Tony,” he says uneasily.

“Nothing!” Tony says triumphantly, letting the file he’d been holding with the other hand drop, scattering his father’s papers all over the floor. “J.A.R.V.I.S., make sure those get incinerated.”

“Sir,” the AI pipes, “it’s Ms. Potts’ preference that you shred, then recycle. She thinks - ”

“Burn it, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Tony commands, casually tossing more papers from the drawer to the stack at his feet.

Bruce smooths his hand along one of Howard’s lab tables. “What did you say you needed the space for, again?”

Tony purposefully hadn’t. He scratches his chin. “J.A.R.V.I.S., what was it I was going to build?”

“A ballroom, sir. Or a swimming pool.”

Bruce, who’s been staying at Tony’s Malibu mansion in the weeks since the Battle of New York, nods once, twice. “This place already has a ballroom, Tony.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And three pools.”

Tony claps his hands. “Now I remember. I was going to put in a ballroom that opens into a pool.” His chin jerks at the sound of footfalls in his own lab one floor above. _Relax, Tony. It’s probably Pepper._ He’d asked her to move in with him a week earlier, a decision in part fueled by caffeine and lack of sleep.

“What a wonderful life,” Bruce mutters, eyes tracking Tony across the cluttered room to a large, cloth-draped artifact. “What’s that?”

Tony shrugs, giving the sheet a tug to reveal an ordinary mirror. He stares at his haggard face for several seconds before quipping, “Mirror of Erised.”

Bruce shuffles over. “So what’s it do?”

Tony blinks. “It shows you the deepest desire of your heart.” Bruce’s hand pauses on the ornate frame. “Jesus, how long were you in Calcutta?”

Pepper enters with a little wave, which Bruce returns but Tony doesn’t. “He’s making a Harry Potter joke.” She gives her boyfriend a peck on the cheek. “There’s someone here to see you, Tony.”

Tony catches Pepper and holds her at arm’s length. “J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he says sternly, “did I say we were accepting visitors?”

“If I may, sir,” comes the disembodied response, “the upgrade you installed last week requires I defer to Ms. Potts when you have gone more than 48 hours without sleep.”

“Tony,” Pepper scolds, but he’s not listening. A shadow moves outside the lab.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., send the suit,” Tony commands.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., don’t send the suit,” Pepper overrides before pieces of Iron Man can come sailing down from upstairs. “Steve, it’s OK. You can come in.”

The worst part is, Bruce doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see Captain America shuffle in. “Traitor,” says Tony, and the scientist averts his eyes. “Cap!” he calls brightly, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Steve casts a sidelong glance at Pepper. “You invited me,” he says, muscles rippling as he folds his arms across his chest.

Pepper nudges Tony. _“Ow,”_ he complains, rubbing the spot where her elbow connected with his ribs. “What was that for?”

 _“You know,”_ says Pepper. She clears her throat.

“Sure,” Tony says breezily, “you’re always welcome here, old man.”

“Play nice,” Pepper says, and she’s gone.

Steve waits until they can no longer hear the click of heels on the stairs. “You didn’t know I was coming,” he says flatly.

“Nope,” says Tony, already back to raiding his father’s lab. He chokes on dust as he rips a sheet off an armoire.

Steve watches Tony poke his head inside. “What is this place?” he asks, curious, and he does the same thing Bruce had done, hand skimming the edge of the mirror.

“My father’s old playroom,” Tony calls from the depths of the cabinet. When he emerges, Steve has taken several steps back, arms tightly wound again. “Forgot the two of you were pals.”

Before Steve can call Tony on the lie, Bruce waves the billionaire over. “There’s a switch back here,” he says.

Steve maintains his distance. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t go touching anything Howard invented,” he cautions.

Of course, Tony flips the switch. An old lightbulb behind the mirror buzzes for a few seconds, then bursts. He turns to Steve. “I could see how that would be startling for someone your age, yes.”

Steve’s expression doesn’t change. “Very funny, Tony. We had electricity in ’45.”

Bruce offers Steve a hand. “Welcome to Malibu,” he says diplomatically in a tone that says _don’t mind Tony._ “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

“I’ll alert the chef,” says J.A.R.V.I.S. “Will you be joining them, Mr. Stark?”

“C’mon, Tony,” Bruce urges.

Tony dismisses the AI. “Not at the moment, J.A.R.V.I.S.” He sticks his head back in the armoire, but it’s just as empty as it was before. “Well?” Tony prompts. “You heard him, Cap. You’re really going to keep the big guy waiting?”

That does it. He’s alone at last in his father’s workshop.

“Mr. Stark.”

Well, except for J.A.R.V.I.S.

“That’ll be all, thank you.” His throat burns from inhaling so much dust.

“Mr. Stark,” J.A.R.V.I.S. says again. “I’m afraid - ”

“I _said,_ that’ll be all,” Tony snaps, yanking his head from the armoire so fast he bashes it on one of the shelves. His eyes water. “Holy mother of - ”

He stops swearing when instead of his reflection, he sees the shimmering, incandescent blue ball in the mirror. Before he can bellow for J.A.R.V.I.S. to send the suit, there’s a flash bang, and the room is catapulted into darkness. Tony can’t see six inches from his face, and still he knows he’s not alone.

Metal scrapes sickeningly across the floor. Tony slaps at the wristbands he’s refused to take off since New York. _C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, any minute now ..._

“Peg?” calls a man’s voice. The intruder coughs. “Peg?”

“This isn’t funny,” she replies in a sharp British accent. “I demand you turn the lights back on this instant, Howard.”

_Howard._

Tony stops trying to summon his armor, at least momentarily. _Howard?_ He only has a second to ponder what this woman might want with his dead father before he’s being prodded. Tony seizes onto something lightweight, aluminum. He tries to jerk it away from his would-be assailant.

There’s a grunt, and the strange weapon is ripped from Tony’s hands. “What the hell?” the man demands. “Who grabbed my - ”

The first piece of the Iron Man suit overshoots Tony and flies into the open armoire. The doors swing shut, trapping the armor inside, where it begins to rattle. Tony dives out of the way just in time - the armoire tips, smashing into the mirror. He feels the sting of glass shards on his bare arms.

He’s not the only one. The female intruder cries out, too. Her worried companion calls, “Talk to me, Peg. Are you OK?”

Tony hears her wince. “Fine, Daniel,” she grits. “Stay where you are. I’ll get the lights. Somehow the room’s gotten even more cluttered.” Someone moves. “You’ll fall,” she chides. The faint glow of the arc reactor beneath Tony’s t-shirt illuminates her shapely legs as she strides past.

 _“Damn,”_ she swears. “He must have blown the fuse - ”

Too late. The man’s eyes fall on the bright orb embedded in Tony’s sternum. “Howard? Why’re you - ”

Another piece of armor whizzes in. It also misses its mark, smashing into the woman instead. The male intruder’s entire demeanor changes. He’d extended a hand as if to help Tony up off the ground, but now he drags the billionaire up by the collar, growling, “That’s it. You’ve really done it this time.”

Tony’s attempts to escape are thwarted when the man swings his weapon and catches Tony across the shins. Tony stumbles. He flops onto his back, but before he can scramble to his feet, he’s getting whacked again. The arc reactor takes the brunt of the blow, and it’s still enough to wind him. The assailant drops to his knees - there’s something jerky, unnatural about how he moves - and twists Tony’s arms behind him in compliance hold.

“Something’s wrong with Stark, Peg,” the man shouts. “He’s glowing.” No answer. “Peg?” Now handcuffs slap unmistakably around Tony’s wrists. “I swear to God,” the man snarls, “if you did anything to hurt my - ”

He doesn’t get to finish his threat because J.A.R.V.I.S. finally finishes rebooting. The emergency lights flicker on. The man - Daniel is what the woman had called him - stops digging his fingers into Tony’s bicep. He rises just as stiffly, and that’s when Tony realizes the weapon Daniel had utilized so effectively is actually a crutch.

Tony can’t help it. He laughs.

Daniel doesn’t look amused. “Think this is funny, do you?” He glares at Tony before limping off, presumably to find the woman. There’s a strangled cry. _“Peggy!”_

“J.A.R.V.I.S., a little help here?”

The door bursts open. In flies the Iron Man suit - and the calvary. The armor hovers awkwardly next to Tony, like it’s ill-prepared to handle handcuffs. “Useful, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Tony says snidely. “Real useful.”

“Tony!” Pepper cries, skidding to a stop next to him. Her hands cup his cheeks. “What was that? The whole house shook, then J.A.R.V.I.S. locked all the doors and powered down. Bruce just - ”

But Tony’s less interested in whatever Bruce did to restart the AI than what Steve’s doing, which is to say slamming the male intruder against the nearest wall. “What did you do to her?” Steve yells, red-faced. “Who are you? What are you doing here? How come that woman’s pretending to be Peggy Carter?”

*

**_Malibu, June 1949_ **

“Remember,” says Daniel, navigating around the circle drive of Howard’s Malibu estate to where Jarvis is waiting to unload their bags, “no shop talk.”

Peggy pushes her sunglasses down her nose. “The whole weekend?”

“The whole weekend,” Daniel replies, watches his wife’s nose wrinkle. “C’mon, Peg. Two days. It’ll be good practice for when we finally make that trip back east.”

He pretends not to hear Peggy groan. “Not this again,” she mutters. She clears her throat. “If I’m not allowed to talk shop, then you can go two days without mentioning how we need to get back to Massachusetts so I can meet your mother.”

Daniel grips the steering wheel with both hands. “She’s starting to think I’ve made you - ”

“Shhh,” says Peggy, pressing her finger to his lips. “No shop talk, no mentioning your mother, and most importantly - ”

“ - no sex at Howard’s,” he finishes. It’s his turn to groan. He kisses her finger. “I hate that rule.”

“I know you do, my love,” she says affectionately as Jarvis opens the car door. Daniel gets one last sultry smile before Peggy’s embracing the butler. “So good to see you!”

Daniel opens his own door, much to Jarvis’ chagrin. “Chief Sousa, may I remind you this is to be a vacation?”

Daniel, a little stiff from the drive up, grips the frame of the Ford for support as he reaches for his crutch. “It’s good to see you, Jarvis,” he says, shaking the other man’s hand.

“Ana’s just setting out the Shabbat meal,” Jarvis says, lifting their suitcases from the trunk. “Fine spread, she’s prepared. We just need to summon Mr. Stark from his lab.”

“That sounds lovely, Jarvis,” says Daniel, and he reaches for one of the valises. “Why don’t I take one of those - ”

Peggy cuts in front of her husband. “Let him,” she says, straightening Daniel’s collar. He grabs her hand. “Mr. Jarvis is happiest when he has something to do.”

Sure enough, the butler hums all the way up the walk. “What about me, huh? I hate having to keep my hands off of you.”

“You’ll survive the one night,” says Peggy. Daniel pretends to pout. “Oh, I’ll make it up to you.”

“Deal,” Daniel says with a devilish grin. She rolls her eyes, hand slipping out of his, sashaying on ahead of him. He can’t complain, though. Not with the way she looks in her new navy skirt.

Peggy pauses at the front door. “If you’re done admiring the view,” she calls before disappearing into the enormous house.

Jarvis has delivered their bags to the first floor guest room. He bustles past Daniel in the foyer. “Wine?”

“Whatever Peggy’s having,” he replies, waving to Ana in the kitchen. “Anything I can do?”

“If you and Miss Carter wouldn’t mind fetching Mr. Stark,” he says, now wrangling what looks like a giant cookie sheet off of the stove.

Peggy catches Daniel by the elbow, but not before he hears Ana correct gently, “She’s Mrs. Sousa now, Edwin.”

“Oh my,” comes Jarvis’ frazzled reply, “I fear she’ll always be Miss Carter to me.”

Howard flat out refuses to come upstairs when Peggy tells him gazpacho’s on the menu. “It’s not soup,” he insists. “Soup’s supposed to be hot. Cold spaghetti sauce, that’s what it is.”

“It’s not - ” Peggy shakes her head, turning to Daniel to help.

“What are you looking at me for?” he says. “I like Ana’s cooking.”

“No one likes Ana’s cooking,” Howard says. He points to the reflection of a wrench in the ornate, full-length mirror he’s tinkering with. “Sousa, gimme that.”

Daniel limps around the table to drop the tool in Howard’s outstretched hand. He gives Peggy’s shoulders a squeeze, surveying their reflection. He can hardly believe his good luck most days. “So what is it?” he asks Howard.

The billionaire licks his fingers before flipping to the next page of his notes. “Just a little idea I had,” he says noncommittally.

“Howard,” Peggy prompts.

He looks up - not guiltily, Daniel’s not sure Howard feels those pangs of conscience - but like he’s been caught. “OK,” he says, “hear me out - ”

Peggy, who has a better view of Howard’s notes than Daniel does, exclaims, “That’s the Zero Matter file! Howard, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t bring that work home.” And she tries to snatch it out of his hand.

Howard jerks the file away. “That’s not hearing me out,” he complains. “Listen to me, Peg. I’m getting somewhere with this. What if we could move from one space to another without having to take a car or a boat or a plane?”

“Then you could stop buying yourself very expensive toys,” says Peggy. “Give it to me, Howard.”

“Translocation, Peggy. It’s the future. Forget flying cars. We’re on the verge of travel by portal.” Howard’s arm pans, like he’s unveiling a billboard. “Just think. Friday afternoon, you and Sousa cut out of work early, step through the portal, and voilà! You’re drinking poolside in Malibu. No sitting in traffic! If you wore a bathing suit under your dress you wouldn’t even need to change.”

“Just one problem, Howard,” Peggy says sweetly.

“What’s that?”

“Daniel and I never get off early.” She snags the file from Howard. “Chief Sousa, permission to repossess Stark Industries’ allotment of Zero Matter for violating the terms of the research and development compact.”

Daniel folds his hands on top of his crutch. “Permission granted,” he says wearily. He pretends not to notice Howard glaring at him. _So much for a weekend away._ “Is it here, Stark?”

“I’m proposing translocation via interdimensional portals, Sousa. Maybe you could be a bit more specific?”

Daniel sets his jaw. “The Zero Matter,” he says. “Is it in this room? Or anywhere on the estate?”

Howard blows a raspberry. “She was more fun before she married you,” he tells Daniel, though he’s already opening an old armoire. He pulls out what looks like a small, metal train case. But Peggy and Daniel know better: it’s an inconel alloy containment chamber holding one-hundredth of all the known Zero Matter in the universe. “Here,” Howard says in a bored, disinterested tone.

“Hey, Peg,” says Daniel, bumping the old mirror with his hip in his haste to intervene. He hates everything about Zero Matter, but especially it being anywhere near his wife. “Let me handle it.”

He reaches for the carrying case, but Peggy doesn’t let go. “Honestly, Daniel. So long as it stays in the containment chamber - ”

“Peg,” he pleads, “don’t make me pull rank on you.”

“Chief Sousa, need I remind you that SSR protocol for transporting Zero Matter requires at minimum two agents? Are you really going to call someone in on a Saturday when I’m already here?”

“I will if I have to,” Daniel grits. “Peggy, I’m asking as your husband.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell me as my boss.”

He swallows. _You knew it would happen eventually._ “Agent Carter, stand down.”

“You know what sounds good?” says Howard. “Gazpacho. How’s that sound? Some nice, cold tomato - ”

Then there’s a crack, and the laboratory floods with blue light. “Peggy!” Daniel shouts, unwilling to be separated. They’re both still holding the sample of Zero Matter when an explosion - or is it an implosion? - knocks them to the ground. “Peg?” He coughs. “Peg!”

“This isn’t funny,” Peggy answers, and Daniel floods with relief. “I demand you turn the lights back on this instant, Howard.”

Meanwhile, Daniel gropes for his crutch. His fingers make contact with something lightweight, aluminum. He uses it to drag himself up. But when he tries to swing his crutch forward, it’s like someone’s trying to tug it out of his hands. “What the hell?” Daniel demands. “Who grabbed my - ”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish because something’s whizzing through the air. With a sound like a cannon blast, it crashes into the armoire, which tips, shattering the mirror into a thousand pieces. Peggy cries out.

Daniel’s going to kill Howard.

*

**_Malibu, June 2012_ **

She’s been in more pain, certainly, but that doesn’t make the throbbing in her temple any more pleasant. Peggy groans. _“How long,”_ she asks, spying Daniel’s worried face, “have I been out?”

“Peggy,” he says after several seconds, though he doesn’t rush to her aid as expected. “Jesus, you scared me.”

“That’s not an answer, Daniel,” Peggy replies. His brown eyes are deep pools of concern, which means there is most assuredly blood caked in her hair. She sighs. Peggy knew she should have packed her hot rollers. She asks again, “How long have I been out?” It’s only then she notices she can’t move her hands.

In fact, her hands are bound.

So are Daniel’s.

Worse, his right pant leg dangles empty off the seat of the chair. He forces a smile. His jaw is bruised. “Trust me, I’d much rather have had you undress me.”

Peggy doesn’t have time for wisecracks. “Who was it?” she wants to know. “Where’s Howard? Did they get the Zero Matter? Do you - ”

“One question at a time, Peg,” Daniel cuts in. He exhales slowly. “I didn’t recognize the woman who tied us up, but she used that same knot Dottie did.”

Peggy inhales sharply at the mention of the Soviet spy. “Another Red Room operative?”

“Afraid so,” says Daniel. Now Peggy notices the ropes around his wrists are tinged pink. If he’s been working them long enough to draw blood -

“Daniel, how long was I out?”

“You were unconscious a while, Peg,” he says softly. “If you could stop scaring me like - ”

She’s not sure what he’d liked her to have done differently this time. They were on vacation in Malibu, for Christ sakes. “Howard?” Peggy prompts, not interested in a lecture on risk-taking.

She doesn’t like the look on Daniel’s face. “Here’s where it gets weird, Peg. There’s a guy here you could mistake for Stark in a dim light, but it’s not Howard. I think the others - ” he ignores it when she interjects to ask how many “ - were calling him Tony. He’s got a metal disk implanted in his chest. It glows blue.”

Peggy forces herself to laugh: a single, uncomfortable chuckle. “I thought I was the one was knocked out. What about the Zero Matter?”

“It’s not here, Peg,” says Daniel, tongue flickering over his lower lip. Like he’s not sure he should tell her this other thing. “But it’s the least of our problems.”

“The least of our problems?” Peggy repeats. Evidently her husband’s gone mad. “The least of our problems? Daniel, need I remind you there’s no such thing as a trivial quantity of Zero - ”

That’s when Steve Rogers enters the room.

Peggy blinks. Just how hard _had_ she hit her head?

*

“Can’t you do something?” Steve demands, watching as Peggy comes to groggily on the closed circuit security feed. _Not Peggy,_ he corrects firmly. Peggy’s in a nursing home in Bethesda. This woman, for all she looks like the fiery SSR agent, is about sixty years too young. “Look! She just said something.”

Tony cups a hand to his ear. “Bruce,” he says, “did you hear that? Because it sounded an awful lot like a 90-year-old man complaining about technology.”

“We’re still working on the audio feed, Steve,” Bruce assures his friend. “J.A.R.V.I.S. couldn’t boot properly with the disruption in the electromagnetic field.”

“So - ” Steve begins to pace, absently grabbing a fistful of hair “ - boot it again.”

“Reboot,” supplies Natasha, cracking her gum loudly.

Steve rounds on her. “You can lip read.”

 _“Clint_ can lip read,” she corrects.

It takes him a second to realize she means Agent Barton. _Hawkeye._ “Well, when’s he going to be here?”

Bruce’s hand on his shoulder about makes Steve jump out of his skin. “We’re working on it,” the scientist says firmly. “If we take the whole system offline, we’re vulnerable. So we have to restart each system one at a time. Just - ”

Steve’s not interested in being told to be patient. “Just fix it,” he calls over his shoulder.

Natasha grabs his arm. “You can’t just - ”

“Watch me,” he snarls.

Steve completely ignores the dark-haired man, whose mouth snaps shut when he enters. “Who are you?” he asks the Peggy-imposter.

“Who am I?” she says, and it’s Peggy’s voice all right. “Who am I? You bloody well know who I am. The better question is _who are you._ Pretending to be Steve Rogers, honestly.”

The woman even has Peggy’s scoff down. Steve shifts his weight uncomfortably. “I know Peggy Carter, ma’am, and while you would have been pretty convincing back in ’45, the war’s over.”

“Of course the war’s over,” she snaps. “It’s been over for four years.”

“Four?” Steve repeats. “Try 64.”

“Actually,” comes the disembodied voice of J.A.R.V.I.S., causing both intruders to jump a little, “It’s been 67, Captain Rogers.”

It’s the man who demands, “Who was that?”

“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Steve says absently. He can’t figure out this con. He’s not sure what they stand to gain by pretending to be time travelers from the past.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says the woman. “That’s not Edwin Jarvis. It sounds nothing like him, and Mr. Jarvis would never allow us to be treated like this in Howard Stark’s home.”

Steve’s not expecting Tony’s robot to chime, “Indeed, he would have found the confinement of Ms. Carter and Mr. Sousa most distressing.”

The intercom buzzes. “J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Tony commands, “do you know these people?”

“Of course, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replies, “as do you.”

“I do?”

The lights dim as the AI projects the intruders’ names and photographs on the wall behind the woman’s head. “Carter, Margaret Elizabeth,” J.A.R.V.I.S. recites. “Born April 9, 1921, in London, England. Currently resides in Bethesda, Maryland. Sousa, Daniel Edward. Born January 7, 1915, in Fall - ”

“Thank you, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Tony interjects. “That will be all.”

*

“Can J.A.R.V.I.S. be trusted?” Natasha wants to know.

“Of course he can be trusted,” Tony snaps. “I built him, didn’t I?” But he has to leave the room just in case his hammering heart decides to betray him.

He’d only flipped the switch on his old man’s science project to get a rise out of Steve. _Time travel isn’t possible._ “Talk to me, J.A.R.V.I.S.”

“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Stark?”

Tony begins to pace. “I almost believe you when you say that’s Peggy Carter,” he says, “but him? I’ve never met a Daniel Sousa in my life.”

“I assure you, Mr. Stark, you have. You even attended Mr. Sousa’s funeral.”

“The man died in 1986, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Tony points out. “How would you know if I was there?” He hadn’t started working on the code for the AI until the 1990s.

“It was in the source material, Mr. Stark.”

Tony stops pacing. That would mean Edwin Jarvis wrote about the funeral in one of his journals. “Still nothing,” Tony insists.

“You were wearing your new Hammer pants, sir.”

It’s enough to trigger a memory of riding through a rain-slicked town in the back of his father’s town car. The day had been notable not for the funeral they attended, but because the real Jarvis had snapped at Tony to stop being selfish. It’s one of only a few times Tony remembers the old butler raising his voice.

The door to the control room opens. “I think we should separate them,” says Steve, crossing his arms.

“Who?”

“Peggy and her male companion.”

“You mean Daniel Sousa,” Tony supplies, watching Steve’s jaw clench.

“Name mean anything to you?”

 _No, but it should._ “There’s another room down the hall that locks from the outside,” Tony calls over his shoulder as he heads for his lab.

“Where are you going?” Steve wants to know. “Tony - ”

He’s already sealed himself in his lab. “J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Tony instructs, “access the source material.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific, sir.”

“No shit,” Tony mutters, thinking of the dozens of journals he’d scanned when he was writing code for J.A.R.V.I.S. “Do a Boolean search, Daniel OR Sousa, see what - oh,” says Tony, when the AI displays more than 2,000 results. He blinks. “Well then.”

“Would you like me to narrow the search, sir?”

Tony’s not entirely sure why the first word that comes to mind is “wedding,” but J.A.R.V.I.S. only returns seven results this time. “Show me that one,” Tony commands. He snaps his fingers. “The video.”

“Very well, sir.” J.A.R.V.I.S. dims the lights as the old home movie begins to play. The coloration isn’t quite natural - too vivid - but it takes Tony all of two seconds to recognize the happy couple as the two people being held captive upstairs. Peggy’s radiant in a gauzy white dress, and Tony gets why Daniel can’t take his eyes off her. Tony’s eyes, however, follow Daniel, his jerky gait. Suddenly Tony understands why there had been so many prototype prosthetics in Howard’s lab.

But the biggest surprise is when the video jumps to Jarvis dancing with a stunning redhead. Tony leans forward in his seat. He only barely remembers Ana, and she’d been old, wrinkled and sick.

Tony hears Pepper calling for him a second before the lab door slides open. “There you are,” she says. “We were worried.” She stares at the still-rolling video for several seconds before she asks, “What are you watching?”

“Source material,” quips Tony as Pepper drops into his lap. “Recognize anyone?”

She gasps as the video pans to Peggy and Daniel feeding each other cake. There’s no sound, but the former S.H.I.E.L.D. director’s face lights up as she swipes icing off her new husband’s chin. “Oh my God,” Pepper says. “Does Steve know?”

Instead of answering, Tony narrates, “Oh look,” as Howard comes into view with a woman on each arm, “do you think the invitation was addressed to all three of them?”

“Because you have so much room to talk,” says Pepper, though at the same time she drapes her arms around Tony’s neck. “That’s Mr. Jarvis, isn’t it? That’s the youngest I’ve ever seen him. And who’s the redhead?”

“Mrs. Jarvis,” says Tony simply.

Pepper frowns. “I never knew he was married.”

“Why would you? She died when I was 6. Hey, where do you think I could get some of those pool loungers? That retro look is in again.”

“Tony.”

The video ends, and the lights come back on. Tony drops his chin to Pepper’s shoulder. He’d known his father knew Peggy, but it’s news to him she’d been close enough to Howard to have her wedding at this very estate. Tony swallows the lump in his throat. “So,” he says conversationally, “how do you feel about having houseguests indefinitely?”

“Tony - ”

“Because I have no idea how to send them back.”

*

“Anything else, boss?”

Fury’s voice crackles in Natasha’s ear. “Just ... remember why you’re out there.”

“Of course,” she says, disconnecting the secure line. She takes a deep breath before rejoining Steve and Bruce in the control room.

Steve stops pacing and lifts his chin in acknowledgement, but his eyes stay glued to the video feed of Peggy. “Did you find Tony?”

“I didn’t go looking for Tony,” Natasha informs him. “I stepped out to take a call from Fury. He’s asked that I keep him apprised of the situation.”

“What’s his take?” Bruce asks.

“He didn’t use the words ‘time travel’ if that’s what you’re asking,” Natasha replies. She settles her gaze on the soiled washcloth she’d used to mop up the female assailant earlier. “How long will it take you to put together a biometric profile to send back to S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Bruce scrunches his nose. “An hour?” he guesses. “They got something of Peggy Carter’s to compare it to?”

Natasha nods.

“What about him?” Steve wants to know, eyes flickering to the video feed of the male assailant.

“What about him?” Natasha echoes.

“Well,” says Steve, and he rubs his jaw, “for starters, who’s he supposed to be?”

She shoots Bruce a warning look before the scientist can open his mouth. “J.A.R.V.I.S. says his name is Daniel Sousa.”

Steve declares, “I’m going in.”

“You sure that’s a good - ” Natasha steps on Bruce’s foot _“ - ow!_ Jesus, Nat, what’d I do to you?”

She waits until Steve’s left the room. “Fury put Cap in charge,” she tells Bruce as they watch the supersoldier enter the room where Sousa’s being held. “Whether his instinct is right remains - ”

They both wince as Steve slams Sousa, still bound, against the table. Bruce boosts the volume just in time to hear Steve demand, “Who are you?”

“The disembodied voice got it right,” the man grits. “Name’s Daniel Sousa. ’Course, you don’t need an introduction, do you?”

Steve doesn’t let up. “Let’s pretend for a minute that woman actually is Peggy Carter. Who’re you pretending to be, huh? Because none of us have ever heard of you.” He grinds his elbow deeper into Sousa’s back. “Gonna answer me?”

“Think he’s noticed the rings?” Bruce asks Natasha.

“Or he’s ignoring them.”

“You know,” Sousa manages, his face getting redder by the second, “you were a lot nicer when you were rescuing my battalion in Belgium in the winter of ’44.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve counters. “And which battalion was that?”

Sousa’s panting between words. “I - served - with - the - 35th - Combat - Engineers.”

“No kidding,” says Steve, and Natasha sees his muscles twitch. But whether it’s to ease up on Sousa or drive the elbow harder into his back, she isn’t sure.

“Plot twist,” says Bruce, “Captain America saved the man who would become Peggy Carter’s husband.”

“You’re supposed to be pulling a blood sample to send back to the lab,” Natasha reminds him.

She watches Bruce consider this. “That’s probably less disturbing than watching 200 pounds of man muscle beat up on an amputee,” he says.

“I don’t know,” says Natasha, watching Steve’s fist connect with Sousa’s face. Sousa responds by spitting a mouthful of blood at Steve. “I wouldn’t write him off.”

There’s a gasp as Tony returns with Pepper. “What’s he doing?” she wants to know. She rounds on Natasha. “Why did you let him - ”

“Fury’s orders.”

“Why would Director Fury order Steve to beat up Peggy’s husband?” Pepper asks, incredulous.

But Natasha’s less interested in Pepper’s concerns than in what Tony’s doing. “Where are you - ”

Tony rounds on the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. “My house, my rules.” He leaves Natasha no choice but to follow him.

“Bruce says it’ll only take an hour to confirm it’s really Director Carter,” Natasha hisses, following him to the room where Steve’s pounding on Sousa.

“You really think that poor bastard’s going to last an hour?” Tony asks. “J.A.R.V.I.S., open the door.”

“Sir, I would advise - ”

“Open the damn door, J.A.R.V.I.S.”

“If you insist, sir.”

The door swings open. But it’s a different sound that prickles Natasha’s ears. “Tony, we have a problem,” she mutters at Pepper’s little yelp of surprise.

“I know,” says the billionaire with a flourish. “It’s like he has no idea how to treat a guest.”

There’s a thump even as Steve’s beatdown of Sousa stops.

The color drains from Tony’s face. “Pepper,” he whispers.

But when Bruce steps out in the hallway, he’s still very much man-sized. “Relax,” he tells them as Peggy prods him with what appears to be a broken chair leg. “It’s me, not the other guy.”

“The other guy?” Peggy asks sharply. She doesn’t wait for an answer. She addresses Natasha. “What have you done with my husband?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha can see Steve still bearing down on Sousa. “Peg,” her husband shouts, “it’s OK, I’m all right.”

“You’ll untie Daniel and return his leg,” Peggy instructs. “Then we will be leaving.” She prods Bruce for good measure.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Tony warns.

Bruce looks annoyed. “How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not going to - ”

Natasha tackles Peggy to the ground just in time. The Iron Man armor whizzes by, securing itself to Tony. Natasha glares at him. “This is all your fault, you know.”

Tony swears as Iron Man’s mask slams forcefully into his face. “I’m aware,” he calls, his voice muffled by the armor.

There’s a thud and a crash, then Sousa pitches himself out into the hallway. “Peg, you’re not hurt, are you?”

Natasha glares at Steve. “Seriously?”

He’s too busy staring at the diamond glittering on Peggy’s left hand to answer.

*

“Peg,” Daniel pleads, “just let me see, OK?”

She sighs, clearly exasperated, though she finally lets him sweep back her hair to inspect the cut on her temple. “It’s not that bad,” she insists through a grimace.

“Your definition of ‘not that bad’ and mine are very different,” he says, hobbling over to the table where the Red Room operative had wordlessly dumped an armload of first aid supplies and left the room. His fingers brush something cold. “Is this supposed to be an ice pack?”

“Daniel, I don’t want you to - ”

He lurches back to the couch where she’s sitting. “Here,” he says, pulling out his handkerchief and wrapping it around the strange bag of blue gel. He presses it gently to the goose egg along her hairline. “Better?”

She drops her heads so her face nuzzles his neck. “We’re supposed to be on vacation,” Peggy mutters into his collar.

His arm curls protectively around her. “So we’re a little banged up,” Daniel says. “We’re OK. We have each other.”

“The Soviets have Steve.”

Daniel feels his chest tighten. He’s starting to think Captain America might be the least of their worries. But he doesn’t tell Peggy. “Tell you what,” he says. “We’ll get him out, too.” He doesn’t mention the dates that had been projected behind her head, which seemed to support Steve’s declaration that the war had been over nearly 70 years.

Peggy’s thumb skims Daniel’s fat lip. “He punched you.”

 _Repeatedly._ He’ll be paying for it come morning. If they make it that long. “This is hardly the first time we’ve gotten out of a tough scrape,” Daniel reminds Peggy. “They’re willing to negotiate, or they never would have dropped off bandages.”

“I very much doubt we’ll like their terms.”

“Probably not,” Daniel agrees, and he starts to shift so she can more easily rest her head on his shoulder. The little groan of pain is involuntary.

Peggy arches an eyebrow. “Not that bad?” she guesses. “Come on, lift your shirt. Let’s see how you define it.”

Daniel knows better than to argue when she begins untucking his Oxford. “See?” He swallows. “Nothing’s broken. Just ... bruised.”

She clucks her tongue. “I am so sorry, Daniel. The Steve I knew never would have - ”

“Hey,” he cuts in, “this is hardly your fault.”

The door opens, and it’s automatic: they scoot apart. Daniel hastily tucks in his shirt. Peggy smooths her skirt.

“No, please,” says the man with the glowing orb implanted in his breastbone, the one who’d donned the strange iron suit in the hallway earlier. He holds up his hands in mock surrender, and Daniel swears this could be Howard’s son. “Don’t stop on our account.”

“Tony,” mutters the Red Room operative, filing in after him. She’s followed by the dark-haired man in the blue button-down Peggy had threatened earlier. He’s a scientist, Daniel thinks. Same twitchy energy as the lab techs, glasses askew on the bridge of his nose.

Finally, Steve shuffles in, an imposing 6-foot-1, the kind of arms Daniel hasn’t seen since he left the shipyard. He supposes a few of the guys in his unit might have enlisted looking like that, but a European winter and inadequate rations had a way of winnowing everyone down, fast.

Though, apparently not supersoldiers. Steve crosses his arms, refusing to make eye contact.

The man called Tony introduces the Soviet spy first. “Natasha Romanoff, Dr. Bruce Banner - ” _doctor, scientist, close enough_ “ - you both seem to be acquainted with Captain America over there, and I’m Tony.” He pauses. “Tony Stark.”

“Stark,” Peggy repeats, and she laughs. “Are we supposed to believe you’re related to Howard? Because I know for a fact he’s an only child.”

“Funnily enough, so am I, which is sort of impressive when you consider what his favorite activity was.” No one laughs. “Oh, come on,” Tony complains. “That was a good one.”

“Oh, so you expect to convince us you’re Howard’s son?” Peggy intones. “So sorry, Mr. Stark, but we’re just not buying your ruse.”

It’s Natasha who steps forward. “You watched him - ” she jerks her thumb at Steve “ - a 5-foot-4 weakling, grow into the world’s first supersoldier, but you’re not willing to consider the possibility of time travel?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

But after everything they went through to stop Whitney Frost, Daniel’s at least willing to entertain the notion. “Humor us,” he says, “in what year have we supposedly landed?”

“I’m afraid we can’t - ”

“Nat,” interrupts Bruce, “I think we need to.” He pulls off his glasses. “It’s 2012.”

Daniel’s actually been punched in the gut today, and hearing Peggy outlives him by more than 20 years still hurts worse.

His wife, however, isn’t having it. “Preposterous,” Peggy says dismissively. “It’s 1949. Do you really expect us to believe - ”

“J.A.R.V.I.S., as discussed,” Tony commands. “Remember, just enough for them to get the gist, not enough to give anything away.”

“I can stop playback at any time, sir,” says the same strange, robotic voice that had interrupted Steve earlier. Definitely not Edwin Jarvis. The lights dim. A montage of home movies begins to play, though there’s no projector Daniel can see.

Peggy smashing cake in his face at their wedding reception some seven months earlier.

New Year’s Eve, 1948, Ana trying to teach Jarvis a swing dance with fancy footwork, camera jerking as Daniel laughs behind it. “The Balboa,” she’d called it.

Them arriving in Malibu that very morning, Peggy threatening Jarvis with a wag of her finger.

“These things have already happened,” Peggy insists.

But the same can’t be said about the next clip, in which a heavily pregnant Peggy waddles into frame to shut off the camera. Daniel feels his heart swell, though not as much as when a dark-haired baby with ears that stick out like his toddles across carpet into his wife’s arms.

The Jarvises teaching two children how to play croquet. This video has sound: the boy hits his ball with a tremendous _crack,_ gleeful when it sends his sister’s skittering across the lawn. The film ends when the little girl begins to cry noisily.

The children - _their children,_ Daniel corrects, and he gropes for Peggy’s hand - grow like weeds. Easter egg hunts and science fairs, Howard complaining over a papier-mâché volcano about a red ribbon that should have been blue. The kids are so close in age Daniel can’t figure out who’s the eldest. The boy, maybe. No, the girl. He and Peggy are getting older, too. His hair turns grey. His limp’s more pronounced.

Peggy, he thinks, only gets more beautiful.

Then Howard’s marrying a woman who could, yes, be Tony’s mother. The billionaire holding a baby like a football, Jarvis squawking indignantly at his employer, “Sir, you must use _care_ when handling Master Anthony.” Peggy cradling baby Tony.

“Seen enough?” Tony drawls.

Apparently Captain America has. Steve leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

*

_Steve’s alive._

_He has been all this time._

_And I didn’t go looking for him._

Peggy’s feeling light-headed again, but whether that’s due to her earlier head injury or the panic that comes from being catapulted 63 years into the future by Howard Stark’s latest contraption, she isn’t sure. She forces herself to focus on the task at hand, which is to say she must push all thought of Steve aside, at least until she’s bandaged Daniel’s arms.

 _You tried,_ Peggy reminds herself. _You begged Colonel Phillips for resources so you could locate the Valkyrie._

She thinks of the stricken look on Steve’s face as her life with Daniel played out in technicolor. _Obviously you didn’t try hard enough._ Peggy’s ashamed to admit she’d been more focused on Steve than Tony’s picture show.

“Peggy,” says Daniel, forcing her to snap back to reality. “Are we going to talk about it?”

Her fingers are wrapped loosely around his wrist. “Completely unnecessary,” she admonishes, flooding with white-hot indignation as she inspects the damage to Daniel’s forearms. Whatever her sins, it’s no excuse for how they’d treated him.

“It’s just rope burn, Peg,” Daniel insists, but she rises anyway, reasonably certain she’d seen a bottle of iodine in the medical supplies Natasha had dropped off earlier.

A wave of nausea forces Peggy to sit back down. _“Oh,”_ she manages, doubling over. She feels her husband’s hand slide to the small of her back as she clutches her stomach.

He says her name once, twice, three times, the same frantic tone she recognizes from one too many missions gone awry. “Peg, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she insists when she’s caught her breath. “Just a little headache, that’s all.”

“You were clutching your stomach,” Daniel points out.

The door opens. Next to her, Daniel straightens, but Peggy makes a point of resting her knee against her husband’s prosthesis.

Tony gives Bruce a little shove. “You do it,” he’s saying. “You’re the one with ‘Doctor’ in front of your name.”

“Tony,” comes the weary reply, “we’ve been over this. I’m not an M.D.”

“They’re from the past,” Tony counters, “are they really going to know the difference?”

Bruce flashes the Sousas an apologetic smile as he pulls the door shut. “Ms. Carter, Mr. Sousa, I know Tony introduced me earlier, but I’m Bruce, Bruce Banner.”

“Chief Sousa,” Peggy corrects.

“I’m sorry, I - ”

“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to him,” says Peggy, and she nods at her husband. “He’s the Los Angeles Bureau Chief of the SSR and deserves your respect, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce looks flustered. Truth be told, so does Daniel. “Chief Sousa,” Bruce mutters.

“Call me Daniel.”

They shake on it. Bruce turns once again to Peggy. He points to the gash that had Daniel so upset earlier. “Director Carter, may I take a look?”

“I’m afraid I don’t direct anything, Dr. Banner.”

“Peg,” says Daniel.

He looks so worried she gives in. “Oh, all right.” Still, Peggy isn’t eager to have her personal space invaded. She finds herself holding her breath as Bruce lifts her hair. He’s a decent choice to patch them up, she supposes. No way was he involved in tying them up or Daniel wouldn’t have allowed him to touch her.

“Follow my finger with your eyes,” Bruce instructs, holding it several inches from Peggy’s nose. He moves it back and forth, up, down, side to side. “J.A.R.V.I.S., can you bring the lights down?” Peggy’s heart begins to pound as the room dims. “Try to relax,” says Bruce with a forced smile. “I just need to check your pupils for dilation. You can bring the lights back up, J.A.R.V.I.S. Any nausea?”

“She got dizzy earlier when she stood up,” her husband pipes.

_“Daniel.”_

“Stand up, Director Carter, and if you can, just walk in a straight line for me across the room.”

“I’m feeling much better now,” Peggy insists.

Bruce crosses his arms. “I still need you to do it, Director.”

“Oh, honestly,” says Peggy. “See? I’m just - ”

Except the same thing happens: Peggy feels immediately light-headed, only this time it’s Bruce who helps her return to the couch. This wins him no points with Daniel, who’s also risen jerkily to her aid. “Let go of her,” he says irritably. “Just because I’m an invalid doesn’t mean I can’t take care of my wife.”

He’s taken everything in such stride, but his words ultimately betray him. Daniel had long ago dropped self-deprecating terms like “gimp” and “cripple” from his vocabulary. To hear him call himself an invalid tells Peggy everything she needs to know about the effect Steve’s sudden reappearance is having on the man she married.

She reaches across Daniel’s prosthesis and rests her hand on his left knee. “Daniel,” she says sincerely, “I am so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” he wants to know. “Not your fault that thing caught you in the head.” _Bless him. He thinks you’re apologizing for being dizzy._ Daniel’s lips graze her forehead. “Hey, Bruce. I have to ask. What was that strange suit Tony had on?”

“About that.” For someone who’s presumably a guest in Tony’s home, Bruce looks strangely like the one intruding. “So Captain America isn’t the only superhero these days. In fact - ” now Bruce fidgets nervously with the bottle of antiseptic solution he’d plucked off the table “ - you met most of the gang. Tony’s Iron Man. Nat’s Black Widow. Clint’s not here, but he’s an archer with aim so good the media’s dubbed him ‘Hawkeye.’” Peggy watches Bruce’s tongue flick over his lips as he pulls up a chair. “Mind if I - ”

Daniel, sweet, wonderful Daniel who’d rubbed his wrists raw trying to free himself to get to her, consents to letting the doctor bandage his arms. Peggy, knowing how much the smell of iodine reminds her husband of the military hospital where he’d recuperated after his amputation, drops her chin to his shoulder.

“So what’s your superpower?” Daniel asks.

“Me? I don’t - ” Bruce breaks off, and he sighs. “I was exposed to gamma radiation while trying to recreate the supersoldier serum.”

“And?”

“And now I turn into a green rage monster.” He pauses. “The Hulk.”

Peggy’s not sure what to say to that, but Daniel simply asks, “Why green?”

Bruce stops dabbing. “Thank you,” he says. “No one ever asks.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, we’re the Avengers, earth’s mightiest superheroes. Well, and Thor. You’re probably not going to meet Thor, though. Not unless you’re willing to go to Asgard.” He chuckles as Peggy and Daniel share a curious look. “Sorry. Nat doesn’t think I’m funny, either.”

Neither of them asks about Asgard.

 _Steve,_ Peggy wills herself. _Ask about Steve._

“Red Room, right?” Daniel asks. Bruce nods. “Then I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself. They’re not exactly programmed to have a sense of humor.”

“Jesus,” Bruce mutters, securing a large bandage to Daniel’s forearm. “I forget how long they’ve been churning out assassins. I’m guessing you’ve met one?”

“Sure have,” Daniel replies, and Peggy knows he’s thinking about their latest Dottie Underwood encounter. “The missus here’s had the displeasure of meeting two.”

Peggy smiles grimly. “While on a joint mission with the Howling Commandos in Belarus after the war, we encountered a girl no older than 14. She killed both Junior Juniper and SSR Agent Mike Li.”

“That’s how old Nat was,” Bruce says absently. “Not that - she doesn’t - she defected. She was deprogrammed using what S.H.I.E.L.D. calls the Underwood Protocol. Which I’m sure you know all about. Since you invented it.” He says this to Peggy, a sheepish smile on his face.

She casts a sidelong look at her husband, his brow knitted. _Then we’re on the same page._ For two years they’ve pursued Dottie, always failing to take her into custody. Peggy can’t imagine catching the Soviet assassin at this point, let alone deprogramming her. “No,” Peggy says, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But you know about S.H.I.E.L.D., right?”

Peggy shakes her head. “Sorry.”

Bruce scratches the back of his head. “What year did you say it was?”

It’s the timing of the others’ arrival - Tony, Natasha, Steve and the woman who’d thrown up her hands in surrender when Peggy’d stormed the control room earlier - that has her certain she and Daniel are under strict surveillance.

“Peggy, guy whose name I’ve already forgotten, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Pepper,” says Tony, arm curled loosely around the blonde woman. “She lives here when she’s not in New York running Stark Industries.”

Daniel struggles to his feet, but Peggy stays seated. “You’ll have to forgive me for not standing,” she says, shaking Pepper’s hand. “I still seem to be suffering the ill-effects of being knocked out by Iron Man.”

It’s not a test, but Pepper passes when she whips her head to glare at Tony.

 _“Sorry,”_ he mouths.

“Not the one you should be apologizing to, Tony,” she says matter-of-factly. She clasps Peggy’s hand in hers. “I can’t tell you how exciting it is to meet you, Director Carter. What you did paved the way for women to work and run companies and - ” she trails off, practically vibrating. “Well, just know Tony and I will do everything we can to make your stay in the future comfortable.”

“Thank you, Pepper,” Peggy says primly.

“But not too comfortable,” says Tony. “Because we have to send you back. Obviously. So you can do all the things in the videos. Also if you could get back in time to found the world’s most powerful counterterrorism agency, that would be great. Since you kind of already did.”

 _“Tony,”_ says Pepper, “I thought we agreed - ”

“Causal loop theory, Pepper,” Tony interjects. “It doesn’t matter what we tell Peggy about the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, as long as we send her back to 1949 in time to get it up and running. Which we will,” he adds. “Because we already have.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Daniel supplies. “Isn’t that what you called it?” he asks Bruce.

The scientist blinks. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” says Peggy, shaking her head. “This is all - ” _overwhelming_ “ - fine and good, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask about - about - ”

“The 93-year-old elephant in the room?” Steve supplies, stepping forward at last. He tucks his hands under his armpits. “Honestly, I’m not sure I can explain it.”

This appears to be Tony’s cue to lean over and stage-whisper, “They found him frozen in an ice _cap._ Get it?”

Peggy ignores Howard’s son. “When?” she demands.

Steve crosses his arms. “Couple of months ago,” he mutters. He lifts his chin. “So I can relate to waking up and it not being 1945 anymore.”

 _“1949,”_ Daniel corrects. “It’s 1949 now.”

Or, what Peggy hears, _no disrespect, Captain, but ..._

Four years. What a difference four years can make. She runs her thumb absently across the underside of the ring on her left hand.

Bruce misreads Daniel’s statement entirely. “Don’t worry,” he says reassuringly, “Tony and I will get you back to the right year. Right, Tony?”

“Right, Bruce,” Tony chimes, like an obnoxious radio host.

Peggy pays him no mind. “You mean for us to believe,” she asks Steve, “you were alive all this time, yet none of us found you?”

It’s a pat answer, one no doubt supplied by the ragtag team of superheroes standing in front of her. “Peggy,” Steve says, “these things, they’ve already happened.”

But that means she and Daniel would have to make it back to 1949 without ever acting on the knowledge that Captain America is out there somewhere.

Suspended in ice.

Suspended in time.

_That’s exactly what happened._

*

“So how’s this going to work?”

Startled, Bruce starts to choke on the noodles he’d just crammed into his mouth. “Water,” he croaks, spewing bits of tofu and cabbage all over his work station. Natasha’s a surprisingly good sport about it. She thumps him on the back and passes him his cup. He drinks greedily.

“Better hide that,” she says, pulling up a chair next to his stool.

“Hide what?” Bruce asks.

“Didn’t they used to play in Brooklyn?” Natasha asks, nodding at his cup, a souvenir from the Dodgers game he’d gone to with Pepper the week before.

“Right,” says Bruce, and he drains the last of the water before tossing the cup into an empty drawer. “You know, for someone who grew up in a Soviet spy factory, your knowledge of American culture is sort of impressive.”

Natasha tucks her legs beneath her. “I was taught how to blend in.”

Bruce isn’t sure what to say to that, so he rubs his hands together. “How’s this going to work,” he mutters. “This is going to work - ” his hand closes in the air “ - it’s going to work because it already has.”

“Interesting theory.”

He pulls off his glasses. “But it is,” he replies. “I guess it all boils down to how you think about time?” Her face stays expressionless. “Which maybe you don’t do very often.” Bruce blinks a couple of times. He’s been rifling through Howard’s notes for so long he’s starting to go cross-eyed. “OK, up until now, we’ve never had proof that time travel was possible, but it hasn’t stopped anyone from waxing poetic on the subject. I tend to subscribe to Novikov’s self-consistency principle.”

“Is this different from what Tony and Steve were bickering about earlier? About whether it would matter if we told Peggy about S.H.I.E.L.D. when it wasn’t founded until the 1950s.”

“Oh, was that bickering? Because I remember yelling. Slammed doors.” He smiles, but Natasha doesn’t. Bruce clears his throat. “I tend to agree with Tony, and not just because I accidentally spilled the beans. Tony mentioned the causal loop theory? Then it wouldn’t matter whose idea S.H.I.E.L.D. was. We could inspire Peggy Carter right now in present day to take the idea back to Howard Stark. It’s basically saying it doesn’t matter which came first, the chicken or the egg.”

“Says the vegan.”

“What can I say? I’m green.” Bruce cringes inwardly. “I’m sorry. That was terrible.”

Natasha touches her comms piece, tucked discreetly behind her left ear. “Try to keep in mind I have to listen to Clint day in and day out.”

Bruce swallows hard. “And how is Agent Barton?” he asks politely.

“Officially? On an unrelated mission. Top secret. Classified.”

“And unofficially?”

“Fury has him digging around an abandoned S.H.I.E.L.D. base in New Jersey for anything he can find that belonged to the husband.”

“Like, for a genetic test?” Natasha nods. “But didn’t D.C. already confirm we have Peggy, live and in the flesh?”

She shrugs. “You know Fury. He likes to be thorough.”

“So … he’s still mad.”

“Bingo.”

“What about you?” Bruce wants to know.

“What about me?”

“When are you planning to tell us why you’re here?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m the S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison to Stark Industries. I’m always here.” She clears her throat. “So you really think the two of you will be able to send them back?”

“Change the subject, nice,” says Bruce. He blows out a puff of air. “I don’t want to say I’m confident - ”

“ - but you’re confident,” she finishes. She glances around, but they’re the only ones in the lab. “Tony isn’t.”

“Maybe it’s time we stop pretending New York didn’t do a number on Tony,” says Bruce. He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that why you’re here? Keep an eye on him? If necessary, neutralize the threat?”

“That’s not my mission,” says Natasha, “but yes.”

Bruce rubs his mouth, surprised she gave him an even somewhat-honest answer. “So what we do is try not to tell Peggy and Daniel too much about what’s coming, though it’s fine if they know a decade before everyone else the Dodgers move to Los Angeles.”

“What if it’s bigger than a box score?”

“What, like the Kennedy assassination?” Natasha nods. “Well,” says Bruce, “they don’t stop it.”

“But they might try.”

“And they won’t succeed,” says Bruce. “Nat, these things have already happened. They can put a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent on the grassy knoll if they want, and the president still gets shot.” He stops for a second to consider this. “God, I sure hope S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t accidentally kill Kennedy.”

“What about Steve?”

Bruce pretends not to know exactly what she’s asking. “What about him?”

“He’s going to want to go back with them.”

He picks up his glasses, twists a fragile arm between two fingers. If he’s busted one pair, he’s busted a hundred. “Well, he can’t. He saved thousands of lives in New York. Steve’s a soldier. He’ll understand.”

“So you’re just counting on him to do the right thing.”

Bruce stares at her. “He’s Captain America.”

“He already lost her once. He’s not going to let her go easily a second time.”

Bruce thinks of Daniel, whom he’d left upstairs poring over Howard’s drawings of prosthetic legs. “Well, he’ll have to. She’s married.”

“What if it’s Peggy who doesn’t want to go back?” He’s about to point out they know Peggy returns to 1949 because she went on to form S.H.I.E.L.D. with Howard a year later, then realizes Natasha’s asking a rhetorical question. “You heard her ask if she was supposed to believe no one went looking for Steve. You know who was obsessed with finding Steve?”

This might also be a rhetorical question, but Bruce answers anyway. “Tony’s father,” he says, biting his lower lip. He never would have guessed Peggy and Howard were all that close. “Yet he was designing prosthetics for her husband well into the ’60s,” Bruce mutters.

“What?”

“Do you think she knows?” Bruce asks. “Do you think she knows Howard Stark will go looking for Steve?”

“It’s half the reason he founded S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Bruce massages his temples. “Are you telling me,” he says, “the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. knew where to find Steve Rogers but left him in the ice so he could be thawed just in time to fight in the Battle of New York?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” says Natasha.

“Damn,” says Bruce unthinkingly, “that’s cold.”

This time, Natasha laughs.

*

 _“Daniel,”_ Peggy is saying, clearly exasperated, and Pepper freezes, not sure if she’s about to walk in on a fight, “don’t be ridiculous. We’re obviously in the - hello? Is someone there?”

Pepper forces a sunny smile as she rounds the corner, but the Sousas certainly don’t look like they’re fighting. Daniel has his left leg propped up on the coffee table, and though Peggy could have taken any other seat on the couch, she’s tucked herself in right beside her husband.

She’s still picking at her Chinese food, Pepper notices.

“Hey, Pepper,” Daniel calls, “we’re hoping you can settle a bet. Do you know if this room used to be Howard’s smoking room, or are we in the old kitchen? Because I’m pretty sure the view’s - ”

“You don’t get to plead your case!” Peggy insists, and though she’s playing along, Pepper also sees she’s inching away from Daniel, pulling her knees back so they aren’t resting in his lap.

“Actually,” says Pepper, “you’re both wrong. This was originally the west ballroom, but it wasn’t added until the ’70s. But both of your guesses were good. Whoever said kitchen was closest. It was one floor below. Of course, it’s the sauna now.”

Pepper pauses, waiting for Peggy to claim victory, but it’s Daniel who squeezes her shoulders. “You hear that?” he says triumphantly. “I was right.”

“You were closest,” Peggy corrects, nudging her husband. Pepper doubts Daniel gets the memo because his response is to grab Peggy’s knee.

Pepper drops into a chair across from them. “So it sounds like you spent a lot of time here,” she says casually. “Or should I say you do spend a lot of time here?”

“Some,” says Peggy, then she whispers something in Daniel’s ear.

His foot immediately slides off the coffee table. “Geez, Pepper, I’m sorry,” Daniel apologizes. “I don’t want you to think I come into people’s houses and put my feet all over the furniture.”

“Oh gosh,” says Pepper, waving her hand, “don’t even worry about it. Tony’s far harder on the house than any guest could ever be. Please, make yourself comfortable.” _Like it sounds like you did at Howard’s._ “Actually, do you need anything? Any special accommodations? Because I can - ”

She breaks off, heart pounding. She feels she’s been rude. Has she been rude?

“Mr. Jarvis used to put us on the ground floor near a bathroom,” says Peggy, clearly taking pity on Pepper. “Thank you for asking.”

“Speaking of bathrooms,” says Daniel, reaching for his crutch, “did I see one just down the hallway?”

“Third door on the right,” says Pepper automatically, sure her cheeks are still burning. Still, she can’t help but watch as he lifts himself off the couch with practiced ease, dragging himself down the hallway. She waits until she hears the door shut before she tells Peggy, “I am so sorry. Was that inappropriate?”

“I’m hardly in the habit of pretending my husband has two healthy legs, Ms. Potts,” Peggy says, though she does so with a smile. “Honestly, it’d be quite refreshing if people offered help, not platitudes. Or - this is my personal favorite - the ones who tell Daniel they’d have their leg cut off if it meant getting me as their nurse.”

Pepper gasps. “Please say that’s only happened once.”

“Enough times Daniel has asked I refrain from punching people.” Peggy begins to twist her hair back. “I wish they could see Daniel as I do. He’s warm and kind and funny. He puts up with Howard and Mr. Jarvis and only asks that I not be too reckless, which I suppose is fair. I look at him and see an excellent husband. People look at me and see a woman who settled for a man with a crutch.”

Pepper thinks she’s safe assuming Peggy’s hair had been perfectly coiffed when she arrived at Howard’s that morning. Now the other woman’s curls tumble loose over her shoulders. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think I’m a little jealous. It’s obvious how much Daniel adores you. Me, I’m lucky if Tony remembers to come up once a day from tinkering with Iron Man to eat or sleep.” She clears her throat. She hadn’t meant to make this about her. “How long have the two of you been married?” she asks brightly.

“Oh, let’s see,” says Peggy, “seven months? Since October. It is June, yes?”

“Newlyweds,” Pepper says. She’d been expecting Peggy to say a couple of years at least. “How fun.”

“We’re actually supposed to be celebrating Daniel asking last year,” Peggy continues. “It was the first weekend of summer. I told Daniel we could go to the courthouse that afternoon, if he liked. But Howard swore up and down we’d regret not having a big party. October was the earliest he could tear himself away from Monaco to attend.”

“Well, it was a beautiful ceremony,” Pepper says diplomatically. _Like father, like son._

“What you said about Tony and his work,” says Peggy, “sounds rather like Howard. Is that hard for you?”

It’s a question Pepper’s asked often, but her response (“Well, Stark Industries doesn’t exactly run itself,” she always says) isn’t entirely truthful, and she doesn’t want to lie to Peggy. Pepper, fortunately, is saved by the slow click of Daniel’s crutch coming up the hallway.

“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take me about three minutes to figure out how to flush,” he says, a sly grin on his face.

“Daniel!” Peggy exclaims, but she’s laughing.

“Just leave it alone,” he tells his wife, grabbing the hand she’s been carding through her curls. “You have beautiful hair.” To Pepper, Daniel says, “I tell her constantly, but she never wears it down.”

“It’s unprofessional!” Peggy insists.

“You know,” says Pepper, rising to her feet, “you should listen to him. Your hair is just gorgeous.” That’s when she remembers why she’d come looking for Peggy in the first place. “Clothes! Let’s go upstairs and see if we can find you something that fits.”

“Can you keep yourself out of trouble?” Peggy asks her husband.

Daniel taps a stack of yellowed papers. “I’ve got reading material.” The kiss is quick, chaste. “I love you.”

Peggy’s cheeks are faintly pink, but she does say, “I love you, too.”

“So,” asks Pepper, once they’re out of earshot of Daniel, “do you always blush like that when your husband kisses you? Because you’re allowed to act like you’re married, you know.”

“I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable,” Peggy replies, following Pepper up the spiral stairs. _“Oh.”_ She clutches her stomach.

Pepper grabs Peggy’s arm. “Are you OK?”

“Fine,” Peggy says, though her hand stays splayed across her abdomen. “I fear time travel’s made me a bit queasy.”

Pepper knows a forced smile when she sees one. “It wasn’t dinner? If it wasn’t to your liking, we can order in almost - ” She stops. Peggy’s a new bride. In 1949. At the height of the baby boom.

_Time travel has nothing to do with it._

“Probably nothing a good night’s sleep can’t cure,” Pepper chirps. “Let’s get you some pajamas, and I’ll show you to your room.”

*

It’s Peggy’s laugh all right, drifting out of the entryway and into the kitchen where Steve’s picking at some leftover fried rice. He’s not so much hungry as restless. He needs something to do with his hands, something to stop himself from curling them into tight fists.

Which is exactly what he’s doing with his left hand. Steve unfurls his fingers, pressing his palm to the table. But this only makes him think about the Sousas’ matching wedding bands. “Peggy Sousa,” Steve mutters under his breath. It sounds wrong. It sounds -

“Talk to me, old man.”

Tony’s voice startles Steve, who sinks a little lower in his chair. “What are you doing here?”

“My house, last time I checked,” Tony replies, taking a swig of milk straight from the carton. “Though I suppose it’s possible I inadvertently signed it over to Pepper. Either way, I live here.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Steve’s the one with a line of sight to the staircase Peggy had just followed Pepper up. “Where’s - what’s Pepper want with Peggy?”

Tony brings a pint of blueberries to the table and drops into the seat opposite Steve. “Clothes?” he guesses. “It’s not like they packed overnight bags.”

“Right,” says Steve, uncomfortable. He doesn’t trust himself not to blurt _Peggy hasn’t said two words to me,_ so he shovels another bite of Chinese food into his mouth.

“I’d ask if you could spare something the husband could wear, but I get it,” Tony continues. “You don’t like to share.”

He has to thump Steve on the back to dislodge the partially-chewed piece of chicken from the supersoldier’s windpipe. “I don’t think anything I have would fit him,” Steve manages between coughs.

Tony flicks Steve, hard, in the bicep. “Because you’re so much bigger than he is, right.”

Steve should wait until he has Natasha’s ear or even Bruce’s, someone who might actually be sympathetic. But the words come tumbling out before he can stop them. “She won’t even look at me.” _Let alone speak to me._ He doesn’t like Tony’s gaze on him.

“Seriously? I get that you were frozen for a long time, but something tells me even in the ’40s women didn’t appreciate it when ex-boyfriends picked fights with their new beaus.”

“I wasn’t picking a fight,” Steve insists. “I was trying to extract information.”

“For a DNA profile?” Tony quips. “Look, I don’t disagree. The guy’s a menace. You should see what he did to my shins with that crutch of his. But you have to admit, the aesthetic isn’t good, big guy like you beating up on the disabled husband. Have you considered apologizing?”

“How am I supposed to apologize if Peggy won’t talk to me?”

“Not to Peggy, to the husband. Jesus, how is it that your generation managed to save the free world?”

Steve decides it’s best to just ignore Tony’s crack. “What if I’m not sorry? What if - ”

“What if you punched a guy and liked it? Gonna let you in on a little secret, Captain Rogers. In the 21st century, you can apologize and not mean it.”

Tony’s words trigger a memory of growing up in Brooklyn, of getting caught with a streak of chocolate on his face when his mother was saving the cookies for church. “Tony,” Steve says uneasily, “that’s not how apologies work.”

“Of course it is,” says Tony, and he holds up the now-empty blueberry container. “So Pepper is going to spend ten minutes rummaging through the fridge tomorrow looking for these because she’s on this smoothie kick. I’ll saunter in, and she’ll ask if I ate the blueberries. And I’ll apologize. Not because I’m sorry. I don’t regret eating the blueberries. They were delicious. So sweet and so cold. But because I don’t want Pepper to be mad at me. She gets her apology, I get a happy girlfriend. Everybody wins. Works in all kinds of situations.”

“I don’t know, Tony. It sounds - ”

“Look,” Tony interrupts, “you’re not sorry you punched the husband. Why would you be? That’s your girl. But you are sorry you upset Peggy. So while the girls are playing dress up, go tell the husband you were out of line. It’ll get back to Peggy. Let the forgiving commence.”

Steve blows out a puff of air. “Where is he?”

“J.A.R.V.I.S., help Steve find the sitting room.”

Peggy’s husband is wearing slacks, and just when Steve was starting to get used to wearing a t-shirt and jeans, he feels underdressed. He supposes Sousa’s sleeves are rolled up, though that could be because his wrists are bandaged where he’d rubbed them raw against his restraints.

Steve clears his throat.

He’d like to say this has the effect of startling Sousa, but the other man doesn’t even look up from whatever he’s reading. “Captain Rogers,” he says evenly.

Steve decides he can do this from a distance, and leans one shoulder against the wall. “Hey,” he says, shaking his head. “I just wanted to apologize. I was out of line earlier. I’m sorry.”

Except the words must ring false because Sousa blinks and says, “No, you’re not.”

“I’m not?” _This is what you get for taking Tony’s advice._

“You’re not sorry your fist found my face,” Sousa continues. “You’re only sorry Peggy found out. So I’ll pass along your apology. But you should know - ” and his tone suggests this is something Steve should already know, not helpful advice “ - Peg doesn’t like it when messages for her are sent through her husband.”

Steve crosses his arms. “You mean through you.”

“I am her husband,” Sousa points out.

He’d sworn up and down he wouldn’t ask, that he didn’t want to know, and yet the next words out of Steve’s mouth are, “How long?”

“How long have we been married? Seven months.” Sousa rests the stack of papers on his lap. “But that’s not what you’re asking, is it? You want to know how long it took her to move on.”

Steve bows his head. Sousa’s not wrong. “You’re her boss?”

“Wasn’t always. We both started as agents in the New York office. I took a promotion, moved out to California. Needed help on a case.”

“Let me guess,” says Steve, lifting his chin. Sousa’s clenching his jaw. “You requested Peg.”

Sousa reaches for his crutch. “Sorry to burst your bubble,” he says, grimacing ever-so-slightly as he rises from the couch, “but she came out on her own volition. Stayed, too.” Sousa’s hand skims his undoubtedly bruised ribs. “I’m going to call it a night.”

“Ms. Carter is already in your room, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. pipes. “Would you like me to show you the way?”

Steve wishes he could take back what he says next immediately. “You’re bunking with Peg.”

Sousa’s crutch stops mid-swing. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m going to go share a bed with my wife. Is that why you’re here? You want me to apologize for marrying Peggy Carter? OK, Steve. I’m sorry. How’s that for a non-apology? And here I thought Captain America was the kind of guy who’d want her to be happy.”

Steve shifts his weight so he’s blocking the doorway. “Peggy Carter,” he says. “Not Sousa?”

“She’s wearing my ring,” Sousa retorts. “I don’t lose a lot of sleep worrying about what she calls herself.  Now can you move? It’s been kind of a long day, what with the time travel and all.”

Steve steps out of Sousa’s way. He can’t help himself. He waits until the other man’s halfway down the hall before calling, “Did you mean it? When you said you served with the 35th?”

Sousa stops, resting his weight on the crutch. “What can I say, Cap? You saved the guy who’d go on to marry your girl. Except she’s not your girl. Heck, she’s not even my girl. Peggy’s always been her own woman. I could see why that would bother you, knowing this was no one’s choice but Peg’s.”

Steve watches Sousa’s retreat, the drag of his bad leg, catches his muttered retort. “You know what I’m sorry for? I’m sorry I squandered Captain America’s rescue by taking a Kraut bullet to the thigh a day later.”

He actually sounds sincere.

*

She’s far too wound up to read, but Peggy goes through the motions of picking out a book from Tony’s library anyway. There’s a whole shelf of Agatha Christie novels - Daniel complains she ignores him whenever a new one comes out - and Peggy selects a battered copy of “They Do It With Mirrors.”

There’s something deeply unsettling about seeing her own name written on the bookplate above a copyright date some three years in the future.

“What is it?” Pepper asks.

“Nothing,” says Peggy, forcing a smile. She drops the novel atop the stack of clothes for her and Daniel, wondering how the book came to be in the Stark collection in the first place. Had she left it inadvertently at Howard’s one summer? Or had she bought this book specifically so she would have reading material tonight? “I guess I’ll read it before everyone else.”

“Would you like me to have J.A.R.V.I.S. summon Mr. Sousa?” Pepper asks.

“Oh, that really won’t be - ” Peggy starts before remembering it’s not her dear friend, Howard’s butler, but the strange, disembodied voice that apparently replaced him. “That would be lovely, Pepper. My feet are killing me.”

“J.A.R.V.I.S., would you tell Mr. Sousa his wife is headed to bed?”

“Of course, Ms. Potts.”

“If you need anything in the night,” says Pepper, ushering Peggy into a bedroom so large and well-appointed it makes their accommodations in 1949 Malibu look paltry by comparison, “just ask J.A.R.V.I.S. He can direct you to extra pillows, any toiletries you may need. He can change the temperature if it’s too cold or too hot.”

“Bring you a cup of tea,” J.A.R.V.I.S. offers, and Peggy has to swallow the lump in her throat thinking of the real Jarvis, who always catches her out of bed when she can’t sleep. She hasn’t worked up the courage to ask about him. _He can’t possibly still be living._ Why, he’d be 101.

“I’m sure Daniel and I will manage,” Peggy says. “Thank you, Pepper, truly. You’ve been so kind.”

“Me?” Pepper’s hand goes to her chest. “What about you, Peggy? You’re incredible. If it were me, I’d be impossibly freaked out.”

“But it’s not just me,” Peggy points out. “I have Daniel.”

She’s largely broken herself of dropping clothes wherever she undresses - her husband might find her unmentionables less sexy if one day he slipped and fell because of them - but tonight she doesn’t notice the trail she’s left behind until she’s already in the shower. Peggy sighs, too tired to care. She hears the click of Daniel’s crutch as the door opens and figures she better get on with it.

“Peg?” he calls over the running water.

“In the shower, Daniel,” she replies, willing the dull ache in her lower back to go away. Part of her thinks she should just invite him in, settle it already. It’s not like fight they’d had that morning - God, how long ago it feels now - hadn’t been brewing for quite some time. Perhaps that’s why Peggy would rather not have this conversation with blood in her hair.

She wraps herself in a fluffy white towel and stands there, hair dripping onto the tiles, as Daniel paces on the other side of the door. His worried walk. She hates being the cause of it.

“Peggy,” she hears him say.

There’s no point in dressing. She’s in need of physical comfort and suspects he is, too, so she opens the door, holding the towel up with one hand. She watches his Adam’s apple bob.

Daniel’s tongue flicks across his lower lip. “I don’t suppose,” he asks, “you’d be willing to bend the rules this once?”

It takes her a second to realize he means her admonishment that morning they wouldn’t be having sex at Howard’s. “Technically,” says Peggy, though she does scan the room very quickly for a portrait of the eccentric billionaire, “this house is no longer Howard’s.”

Then he’s sweeping her into a rough kiss, one that surely hurts his fat lip. Peggy stops worrying about holding the towel up, though they’re pressed so close it stays wrapped around her for the time being. His crutch clatters to the floor, but Peggy’s confident they’ll make it to the bed.

They always do.

Daniel grabs her by the hips, thumbs pressing hard enough to leave bruises. Peggy’s fine with rough. If he wants to take her apart, she’ll let him. She steers them backwards without breaking the kiss, asking him to trust her to get them somewhere good. He lands with a soft _plop_ on the mattress.

“What if I’d tripped?” he asks breathlessly as she lets the cumbersome towel fall to the floor. Her breasts sway as she climbs into his lap. “What if - ”

He groans into the kiss, hips rising to meet hers as she grinds against his erection. She lets her teeth scrape his lower lip as she draws back. She loves how this makes him wrap her more tightly in his arms, like he can’t bear the thought of her wiggling away even an inch. She cups his face in her hands. “Daniel,” she scolds, “can’t you see I’m trying to undress you?”

“Sorry, Peg,” he mutters, hands sliding to the small of her back as she nimbly undoes the row of buttons and pushes the shirt off his shoulders. Her hands hover at his belt when she notices him staring hungrily at her pert nipples. She laughs.

“Oh, what do you think?” Peggy says, and she clasps the back of his head for good measure, forcing his mouth lower. Her other hand untucks his undershirt, fingers curling at his waistband. She considers teasing him, letting her knuckles skim the length of him until he’s spluttering, but it’s not the night for that. She pops the button and unzips Daniel’s fly.

Then hisses when he nips a little too hard at her breast. “Sorry, sorry,” he stammers, dropping a kiss instead. “Better?”

“Much,” says Peggy, though the sting hasn’t quite subsided. She’s not sure why her breasts are so tender. Usually she’s happy to let Daniel bite to his heart’s content. She gasps as he sucks her other nipple into his mouth.

Which reminds Peggy, she has business to attend to. She reaches for Daniel’s dick, palm sliding over his foreskin. Her husband shudders, but he doesn’t stop suckling her breast. “You’re still wearing too many clothes,” she informs him, and she starts to slide off his lap.

Daniel doesn’t like this, and he hooks an arm around her waist. His voice is husky. “D’you have any idea how lucky I feel when I get to do this with you?”

She uses her thumb to wipe a trail of spittle from his chin. He reddens. “I love you, Daniel, but we really must get you out of those pants.”

“Love you, too, Peg,” he mutters, and it occurs to her they hadn’t bothered to turn off the lights. Now she’s the one who blushes.

“Should I - ” she mimes flipping a switch.

Shockingly, the lights dim of their own accord. Peggy’s eyes widen, but there’s Daniel to keep her grounded. “Relax,” he whispers, and his lips tickle, “it’s just - ”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “Don’t say his name,” she says. The very real possibility of Jarvis interrupting is, truth be told, the actual reason she won’t have sex at Howard’s.

Peggy holds out her arm so her husband can shimmy out of his pants. She’d usually help him with his prosthesis, but she imagines after a day like today, so many people poking and prodding his stump, she should let him doff his leg himself. She slides behind him, impatient, pressing distracting kisses along his neck as he unlaces his prosthesis. She can think of better uses for those fingers, wonderfully blunt, slightly calloused from gripping his crutch.

It’s not long before she gets her wish. He pushes her back against the pillows, crooking one finger inside her, then two, her thighs quivering with the slow slide of his thumb over her clit. “Daniel,” she says firmly, “is your plan to tease me? _Oh.”_ Her back arches off the mattress, ache forgotten. She supposes it would be OK if he only wanted to do this. She murmurs contentedly as her legs fall open still further. He slips a third finger into her slick folds.

But she finds herself wanting still more, so she gives his right hip a little push. “On your back,” Peggy orders, grabbing his cock. It’s not until he’s fully seated within her that she wonders if they should have checked the drawers for paper packets. She freezes. What’s to say condoms are still the preferred form of birth control in 2012? Not that they’ve had much use for rubbers since they got married.

_Oh well. Too late for contraception now._

“Peg,” Daniel grits beneath her, “don’t feel like you have to - ”

She silences him with a quick kiss, breasts bouncing as she sets a punishing pace. Peggy’s content to do the work, to ride him, but she senses Daniel’s craving more to do. She pulls off him with a slick pop. “Peg - ”

“I want you behind me,” she tells him, flopping onto her left side. A moment later he’s slotting himself back inside. They end up in this position more often than not. It’s easy on his bad leg, and she loves the skin-on-skin contact, how he pins her to his chest.

“I can’t kiss you,” he complains, breath ghosting her ear.

“Not on the mouth, no,” Peggy agrees, “but surely you can find somewhere else to kiss.”

He settles on the sensitive flesh of her neck, cupping one of her breasts in his hand. But Peggy finds her nipples are still unusually tender, so she drags his hand down to the juncture of her thighs. _Oh, that’s better._ His fingers circle her clit, until every shallow thrust feels like a promise.

Peggy cries out. She feels Daniel start to draw back, but before he can, she’s reached back, grabbing his hip. “Stay inside me,” she urges.

Daniel nips at her earlobe. “If the lady insists,” he murmurs.

“She most certainly does,” Peggy says, biting her lip as she rides out the aftershocks. She feels his hand creep up to her stomach, where she covers it with her own. He finishes with a groan but doesn’t try to pull away this time. They lie there, breathing heavily, until Daniel’s soft and fluids begin to leak onto her thighs.

“I think we made a mess,” he says, withdrawing from her with a shaky laugh. But before he can scoot away, she traps him with one of her legs.

“We need to talk, Daniel.”

She feels his muscles tense. “OK.”

Peggy rolls over in his arms. “About earlier - ”

“Listen, Peg - ”

“The stunt I pulled with the Zero Matter is probably what got us into this whole mess in the first place,” she says bluntly. “I should have let go of the containment case the first time you asked. You’re my husband. You’re allowed to be concerned for my well-being.”

He’s slid his hand down to the ugly scar she’d gotten at Roxxon. “I still shouldn’t have pulled rank on you,” he mumbles. Now he spreads his fingers over her belly. “It’s always been hard for me to see you in any kind of danger, and it’s only going to get harder now that I know you give me two beautiful children.”

They haven’t talked about it, apart from their wedding night. Even then it wasn’t so much a conversation: he’d started to reach for a condom, and she’d pushed the drawer shut. To do so had been terrifying, given their history. But Peggy had wanted to give Daniel a family.

 _You still do,_ she reminds herself.

“ - poor kid,” Daniel is saying, “getting stuck with my ears.” He chuckles. But then the smile slides off his face. “Peg, are you listening?”

Her heart begins to beat very fast. “Of course I’m listening,” she lies. “Your ears, go on.”

“You’re not excited,” he says flatly.

“No, no,” says Peggy, “it’s not - I’m just - ”

But Daniel’s already withdrawn his hand. “Forgot,” he says gruffly, “I’m only the consolation prize.”

“Daniel - ”

“No, I get it,” he interrupts, swinging his leg over the edge of the bed. He digs around in the pile of clothes on the floor for his underwear. “He’s the love of your life.”

Peggy closes her eyes. “I married you, Daniel,” she reminds him, and she grabs his wrist to tug him back when he tries to stand. His crutch is still across the room. “Really? Do you want to fall and wake the whole house?”

“No,” he agrees, “can’t have that. Captain America might rush in and realize you actually have sex with the cripple.”

Peggy dutifully retrieves his crutch, though it takes considerable restraint not to whack him with it. She lets him snatch it from her. “We made vows, Daniel,” she reminds him as he hobbles into the bathroom. “Frankly, I’m offended you think I’ve forgotten them.” She plucks the still-damp towel off the floor. Daniel’s gripping the edge of the sink for balance, head bowed. She watches him shake his head in the mirror.

“I feel like I’m losing you, Peg,” he mumbles. “I feel like I’ve already lost you. What can I possibly give you that he can’t?”

She slides her hand down his bicep, resting it on his elbow. “Well, I believe you said something about two beautiful children.” Peggy swallows the lump in her throat. “Daniel, I won’t lie to you. It’s been jarring to see Steve again, but only because I thought that chapter of my life had ended. Not because I don’t love you.” Her other arm wraps around her husband’s chest, and she presses her cheek to his back. “Can you believe me when I say you make me so happy?”

“He’s a superhero, Peggy. An honest-to-God superhero. I can barely walk. I sure as hell can’t do what he did on the battlefield.” Daniel gulps. “Forget the bedroom.”

Peggy can’t help it. She laughs.

Daniel shrugs her off. “Real nice, Peg,” he mutters, and he leans against the sink. “Way to - ”

“Daniel, I’m going to assume you never had sex in a tent on the European front,” Peggy says, “because if you had, then you’d know you didn’t miss much. Steve was a 26-year-old virgin who barely knew his own body. He’d never even seen a woman naked before.”

Her husband exhales slowly. “Peg, you don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

She wraps her arms around his waist. “But I’m not lying, my darling. You take such good care of me. You’re a wonderful husband and an excellent lover.” She strokes his cheek. “I absolutely want to have a baby with your ears because you’ll be a terrific father.”

Peggy watches some of the tension start to melt off his shoulders. “Be careful what you wish for,” he tells her.

“I like your ears!”

Daniel kisses her temple. “I suppose you want to get cleaned up a bit?”

Peggy nods, releasing him. Her thighs are starting to feel tacky beneath the towel. She cleans up with a washcloth, hesitating before throwing it in the hamper. Another good reason not to have sex at Howard’s - how on earth do you hide the evidence? Not that Jarvis hasn’t seen worse, but it would make her very uncomfortable, indeed. She hears Daniel moving around in the bedroom as she pulls on one of Pepper’s t-shirts and a pair of cotton panties. Peggy catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and snorts. She’s built much differently than Tony’s girlfriend, and her breasts strain the thin, grey fabric. Her hair’s tangled. Daniel’s left a hickey on her neck. She looks utterly wrecked.

She smiles.

It’s only when she leaves the bathroom that she notices the six paintings of Iron Man opposite the bed, identical but for the different garish colors. Hastily, Peggy calls, “J.A.R.V.I.S., hit the lights.”

“As you wish, Ms. Carter.”

She crawls into bed next to her husband, careful to avoid the wet spot. Her head drops to his chest. He’s found one of Bruce’s shirts, but Peggy thinks he still smells like the California they left, not the strange one they’d reached. The room is silent, still, until finally her husband says, “There’s no one in the world I’d rather get sucked into the future with than you, Peg.”

She lifts her head off his chest. “Was that you trying to be romantic, Chief Sousa?”

“No shop talk,” comes his sleepy reply.

There it is again, the unsettled feeling deep in her belly. She tries to focus on Daniel, on the small, comforting circles he’s rubbing on her back, but sleep is a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony of course is quoting William Carlos Williams' “This Is Just To Say.”
> 
> As always, this wouldn't have happened without [lazaefair](http://lazaefair.tumblr.com) and [frommybookbook](http://frommybookbook.tumblr.com). So if you love it, thank them. If you hate it ... well, you know who to blame.
> 
> You can find me [on Tumblr](http://em2mb.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some ableist language in regards to Daniel’s disability.

“Hey Nat, you awake?”

Natasha opens her eyes. “No, Clint, I’m asleep.”

“Oh. Uh, I won’t - ”

“How’s New Jersey?” Natasha interrupts, smirking as she draws her knees to her chest, feet sliding over the ridiculously soft sheets. Staying the night at Tony’s is certainly no hardship.

Clint heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Fury wouldn’t even spring for a Holiday Inn.”

“You know, for all your complaints about the S.H.I.E.L.D. per diem, you never seemed to mind sharing a room with me,” Natasha points out. “Though, I figured you’d be halfway back to D.C. by now. Still no luck finding something of the husband’s?”

“Found a bloody shirt of his,” says Clint in a bored, disinterested tone. “It’s already on its way to D.C. with Agent Chen.”

“So why are you still in the Garden State? Is Fury worried there won’t be enough DNA to make a match?”

“Let’s just say they’ll have plenty of genetic material to work with.” Natasha grimaces. “Hey, did you know he was her assistant?”

“Who? The husband?”

“No, no. Fury. He was Director Carter’s assistant. So he would have known them. Both of them.” She can hear Clint flopping around in the motel bed some 3,000 miles away. “If you need me, I’ll be imagining Fury fetching her tea.”

Natasha chuckles. “Anything else, Agent Barton?”

“No. Except - ” he hesitates, then lowers his voice “ - what are you wearing?”

“An oversized t-shirt and gym shorts,” says Natasha in a mocking approximation of a porn star’s voice. “What about you, big guy?”

Clint groans. “It’s just ... been a while, you know?”

He’s not wrong. They’ve been on separate assignments since the Battle of New York. Usually, if Clint’s not available, Natasha just finds someone else to scratch that itch. But lately, she hasn’t wanted to. “Remember that straw hut in Bali?”

It’s a very different groan Clint lets out this time. “Jesus, Nat, you think I could forget?”

She unfurls, feet fluttering down to the mattress, knees slightly askew. “Because I’m thinking of asking Fury for a few vacation days.” She slides her shorts an inch or two down her hips, closes her eyes, tries to imagine a sea breeze. “Well? Will you meet me in Bali?”

“I think we both know where Fury would tell me to shove my vacation request.”

Natasha opens her eyes. _“Clint,”_ she hisses. “Play along.”

He swallows. “Right. Bali.” She hears the snap of elastic, knows he’s reached into his boxers.

“Take them off,” she orders. “Your shirt, too.”

“This feels more like Bali,” Clint quips, though he does as he’s told. “What about - ”

“You know my rule about socks,” Natasha interjects, and he chuckles as he pulls them off. “Now touch yourself because I can’t.” She waits for the sharp intake of breath, then purrs, “Good. You remember that first night? The beach, the sunset?”

“Was this the night we broke the hammock?”

Natasha sighs. “That was next night,” she says. “Seriously? You don’t remember?”

“Nat, no amount of staring at the reproduction seascape on the opposite wall is going to change the fact this room overlooks a dumpster.”

“This might be better if you don’t talk.”

“Gee, thanks,” says Clint, and this time the groan catches in his throat.

“Are you still touching yourself?”

“You told me to!”

The thought of Clint sprawled naked across the bed of some shitty interstate motel, mismatched socks cast aside, shouldn’t do it for Natasha. But somehow, inexplicably, it does. She slides her hand under her shirt. “You know what I like?” she asks, sweeping her thumb over her nipple until it perks up. She pinches it the way Clint would, though her fingers aren’t as calloused, aren’t as blunt. “I like it when it’s your hand here.”

“Here?” Clint repeats, voice hoarse. “Where’s here?”

 _“Well,”_ says Natasha, shivering a little in spite of herself, “it’s on my breast at the moment, but I was thinking ... it might ... slide lower.”

“I have two hands,” Clint says breathlessly. There’s a pause. “That sounded better in my head.” Then, softly, “C’mon, Nat, take your panties off for me.”

Natasha smiles. “Since you asked so nicely. Mmm, Clint,” she says for effect, shimmying out of her sleep shorts. She, however, leaves the shirt - one of his - on. He doesn’t need to know. She strokes over her clit with her middle and index fingers. _Oh._ She supposes it has been awhile.

“Are you wet?” She pretends his lips are on her ear and finds she is, in fact, wet. Surprisingly so. “C’mon, Nat, touch yourself for me.” She obliges. “Wish I were there,” he says wistfully. “Fucking love watching you come.”

“What about making me come?” Natasha suggests innocently. Well, maybe not innocently, since she’s fucking herself with three fingers. “Tell me, Clint, what you’d do if you were here.”

She imagines he’s close, judging by the ragged breaths he keeps taking. “Fuck, Nat,” he croaks, “wanna touch you everywhere, wanna get my hands on those perfect goddamn tits, wanna taste you, wanna _fuck - ”_

He grunts, and Natasha knows he’s close. “How would you fuck me? Have me ride you? Hmm, you could be on top for a change. Would you like - ”

Apparently Clint _would_ like that, as he cries out her name as he comes. He just keeps muttering “Natasha” and “fuck” over and over, until she’s not sure what has her more worked up: his words or the frantic thrust of her fingers.

“You sound so good, Natasha,” Clint pants. “Fuck, we _should_ go back to Bali. Open the windows and let the breeze in while I take you apart. Would you let me do that, Nat? Do you still trust - ”

_“Clint.”_

She comes down from her orgasm slowly, listens to Clint release little puffs of air, probably to keep himself from blurting something stupid like he had in Bali.

“That was - ”

Natasha cuts him off. “Yeah,” she agrees. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Clint.”

But she doesn’t disconnect her comms piece, either, not until his breathing’s leveled off. Then, and only then, does Natasha turn onto her side and try to sleep.

*

This time, when Tony falls back through the wormhole, he lands in 1940s New York, his father looming over the Iron Man suit and asking, “What is this? I didn’t invent this.” He startles awake in modern-day Malibu, sheets clinging to his sweat-drenched skin. Tony flops onto his side and reaches for Pepper, only to come up empty.

Heart pounding, Tony calls, “Pepper?” No answer. “J.A.R.V.I.S., security check, _now._ I want to know who’s in the house, where they are, what they’re - ”

He breaks off as J.A.R.V.I.S. brings up the surveillance feeds. There’s Bruce, snoozing in Tony’s lab; Steve, doing sit-ups in his room; Natasha, curled up with the comforter pulled up to her chin; the Sousas, Peggy’s head on Daniel’s chest; and finally Pepper, pacing the length of the master bathroom.

“Ms. Potts is on the phone with China,” J.A.R.V.I.S. informs Tony, who’s already throwing back the covers. He creeps across the room and presses his ear to the door.

“Of course, Mr. Li,” Pepper is saying. “Your business is very important to Stark Industries, but as I’ve explained to you countless times, that timeline is no longer possible. The Battle of New York shut down our Manhattan office for - oh, what’s that? You’re a close friend of Senator Boynton? Well, that changes everything, doesn’t it? No, no, it actually doesn’t get the deliverables ready to ship any sooner.”

But instead of coming back to bed when she hangs up the call, Pepper rouses her assistant. “I know, I know, it’s the middle of the night,” she says apologetically, “but we have to get a handle on the China situation. Is there anything on the current production schedule we can bump? No, that’s a government contract, the board will never agree - ”

“Hypocrite,” Tony mutters under his breath. For all of Pepper’s needling to sleep more and take better care of himself, she’s terrible at following her own advice. Tony gives her one minute, two minutes, remembers how his call to her went unanswered during the Chitauri invasion, and he skulks off to his lab. He thumps Bruce on the back. “Banner!”

“Two left feet!” Bruce blurts, pitching forward on the stool and slamming his chin against the lab table. _“Ouf.”_ He rubs his jaw, blinking back sleep. “Tony. What are you doing up?”

“Glad to see you’re being productive,” Tony says sarcastically.

His own lab, however, is but a detour en route to Tony’s final destination: the vast, subterranean level he’d never been allowed to enter as a kid. _“Your father’s playroom,” Jarvis would say when he caught Tony on the stairs. “Best keep out.”_

Now Tony wonders if the old butler had a very specific worry involving an antique mirror and old armoire. It would be just like his father to keep a working time machine in the basement, just as reckless, just as careless, no explanation given as to how it worked or how Tony might fix it.

“This is on you, you know,” Tony says to no one in particular as he angrily punches in the access code. He can still hear the _rap tap tap_ on the Iron Man suit from the dream, disbelief in Howard’s voice that someone else had designed something so sophisticated. “You arrogant bastard,” says Tony, kicking an empty bucket across the floor. _“Fuck you.”_

“Sir,” pipes J.A.R.V.I.S., “might I suggest caution while in your father’s laboratory? I thought the team agreed no more ... mishaps.”

“Mishaps?” Tony repeats, before he remembers there’s no one there to round on. His shoulders slump. _This is your fault, Tony. You were so eager to one-up Rogers you might have broken the spacetime continuum in the process._ “Right,” he mutters, dropping heavily into an old chair, the springs creaking dangerously. He rubs his hands together. “OK, J.A.R.V.I.S., let’s start with the mirror. I need the broken pieces scanned, catalogued and - ”

“I’m sorry, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. interrupts. “My imaging capabilities are limited at this level.”

Tony glances up. “I suppose we are a hundred feet underground,” he concedes. “Well, we could - ” he breaks off. “J.A.R.V.I.S., I want you to look for fractures.”

“Fractures, sir?”

“You know, anything that’s changed since yesterday,” says Tony, snapping his fingers. “Tears in the fabric of space and time. It could be files on the S.H.I.E.L.D. server, something in the news.”

“Sir, I’m afraid that will be easier said than done. It’s also possible our knowledge of the past will shift with the - ”

_“J.A.R.V.I.S.”_

“Whatever you say, Mr. Stark.”

Tony rakes a hand through his hair. Doesn’t J.A.R.V.I.S. know he knows all this? “No,” he says, “no, we send them back. These things, they’ve already happened. C’mon, Tony, think. What do you do? How do you fix this?”

Maybe his father was right. Maybe Tony just isn’t as good.

*

Steve presses one last kiss to Peggy’s inner thigh, trying to remember everything she’d told him last time. He opens his mouth. He closes it when she calls, “Steve?” Her heel digs into his back.

He lifts his head, resting his chin on the jut of her hip. “What is it, Peggy?” he asks, admiring her supine form. She’s sprawled naked on the cot, one arm tucked behind her head. It affords Steve a spectacular view of her breasts. “Did I do something - ”

“You’re overthinking it,” she says sweetly, carding her fingers through his hair, tracing his jaw.

He kisses her palm. “I want this to be good for you,” he mumbles, ducking his head, her coarse curls tickling his nose. Steve closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. Her smell is musty-sweet, a little earthy.

“It will be, my darling,” Peggy reassures him, and it’s all the encouragement he needs to plunge his tongue hungrily into her slick folds. He wants to commit how she tastes to memory, just in case this next mission is a long one. He’s not even supposed to be here right now. The rest of the Howling Commandos have already set off for Belgium. He’d promised to rendezvous with them by daybreak. _“Mmm.”_

Steve chases her little sigh of contentment with two fingers, tongue sliding over her engorged clitoris as he begins to stroke, gently at first, but more firmly when she nudges him with her heel. It’s dark in the tent, but he can make out her hand on her breasts, first pinching one nipple, then twisting the other. If he hadn’t been painfully hard before, the sight of Peggy’s lips falling open around his name certainly would have done it.

Except it’s not his name she’s moaning.

_“Daniel.”_

He jerks his head up at the same time an explosion tears away the tent. Steve feels hurt, angry, betrayed, yet still he fears for Peggy’s safety. “Take cover!” he shouts. Then he frowns. A minute ago it had been summer. Now there’s a foot of snow on the ground, and Peggy’s naked. She’ll need to dress, and quickly, or else risk frostbite.

“Peggy!” he bellows. How could she just disappear? The snow begins to blow, until it’s so white it’s blinding. Steve’s still shirtless, still barefoot.

He trips.

“Captain,” coughs the wounded GI, a bullet hole in his thigh. His blood stains the pristine snow. “Maybe you could help me?”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, detaching the man’s spare dog tag. No way will he make it. “I have to find Peggy.”

He traipses through the snow, the dying soldier’s metal ID dangling from his fingers. By the time he reaches the dance hall, his feet feel like they’ve been encased in ice.

Yet when he opens the door, he’s wearing his Class A uniform. Steve realizes he’s at the Stork Club only seconds before he hears Peggy call, “There you are. What took you so long?”

The crowd parts to reveal the most stunning bride Steve’s ever seen. “Peggy,” he breathes, and he extends his hand. She’d waited for him after all.

But instead of taking it, she rips the dog tag - he hadn’t realized he was still holding it - from his hand. “Did you kill this man?” she demands.

“No, Peggy,” Steve insists, “it wasn’t like that.”

She clucks her tongue. “Dance with me, Steve.”

He’s not expecting the band to switch from a slow waltz to an up-tempo tango the moment he takes Peggy’s hand. “I don’t know this one,” he warns, watching the other men bend their dates backward in time to the music.

“Then perhaps you should bow out,” someone suggests. “Let her find a new partner.”

It’s the soldier Steve had left to die in the snow. The man’s face is pallid, his dark eyes sunken. He’s still in field dress, bleeding all over the ballroom floor. Steve blinks. “But you’re dead.”

“Just one dance,” Peggy promises, and to Steve’s astonishment, she lets the soldier cut in. He leaves a bloody handprint on her waist. The band plays louder. The couples spin faster. There’s a crash of cymbals.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

It’s the sound of gunfire that finally wakes Steve. _We’re under attack,_ he thinks grimly, tumbling out of bed. He reaches for his shield, no time to dwell on the fantasy-cum-nightmare.

Only when he hauls open the door, no one’s shooting at him. In fact, it’s just Natasha in running shorts and a neon sports bra. Steve swallows the instinct to tell her to cover up. “What’s up?”

He watches Natasha take stock of the shield, his sweat-drenched brow. “I startled you,” she surmises.

“No kidding,” Steve mutters, finally slackening his grip on the vibranium disk. He rakes his other hand through his hair, tries to brush off Peggy’s ghost.

“I’m going for a run,” says Natasha.

He’s not sure why she’s telling him. “Good for you.” Then he remembers: he’d asked if he could jog with her, not sure he’d ever find his way back to Tony’s lavish estate. “Oh yeah. Uh, give me a minute.”

She generously gives him ten. Though she also tells him to meet her in the rose garden without telling him where that is.

Steve tries to banish the dream from his thoughts as he uses the john. Not that memories of the summer of 1944 aren’t frequently fantasy fodder. Peggy’s the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up and the last thing he thinks about before he goes to sleep most days. Usually, though, she gets his name right. Steve wonders if Peggy’s awake or still asleep, head on her husband’s chest like she used to lie on his.

He eventually finds the rose garden, where Natasha’s bent double over a concrete bench. Steve tries not to stare at her backside as she flexes. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve counters, “I don’t exactly see any roses.”

Natasha shrugs. “I asked Pepper about it once. Apparently it’s named for Rose Hobart.”

Steve frowns, remembering a darkened theater, another double date Bucky’d dragged him on. “Like the actress?”

“Huh,” says Natasha. “So one of Howard’s conquests, then. Ask J.A.R.V.I.S. for directions next time.”

“Right,” he mutters, no choice but to set off without stretching after Natasha.

They’ve run about a mile when Natasha says, “You were awfully hard on the husband.”

Steve breaths in through his nose, out through his mouth. “Says the woman who tied them up.”

Their feet pound the pavement. “That was a practical decision. Yours was just indulgence.”

“Indulgence,” Steve repeats. “You think I roughed Sousa up for kicks.”

“I don’t think it was a hardship, no.”

Steve slows, then stops. “Nice, Natasha. Real nice. You want to scold me? Scold me. Tell me it was wrong.”

She stops, too, hands on her hips. She doesn’t turn around. “It’s OK to be jealous.”

“Jealous?” Steve scoffs. He crosses his arms. “Not much to be jealous of, is there? The guy can hardly walk.”

“Here I thought you of all people would be able to look beyond a person’s physical limitations, Captain.”

He bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You weren’t always able to run a mile without getting winded,” Natasha points out.

It’s his cue to take off running. He’d taken the scenic route from New York, jogging Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, San Francisco Bay. The winding, coastal road leading to Tony’s mansion is no less stunning than the stops Steve made along the way, but he’s so focused on excising his demons the leafy palms hardly register.

Nor does the fact he’s set a pace Natasha can match. At least until she puffs, “Don’t slow down on my account.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, Steve picks up speed. Surprisingly, so does she. He bows his head before breaking into a sprint. Now he really isn’t paying attention to anything but the resistance of the wind, the fire in his lungs. He lets his feet carry him forward, one mile, then two. He runs until he can’t hear the ocean, until he has no idea where he is in relation to Tony’s house. Then he keeps running, until he’s winded like he would have been pre-serum.

Steve’s not expecting Natasha to pant, “That’s all you’ve got?” He whirls around. Her hands are on her knees, but she’s unmistakably _there,_ and he wonders (not for the first time) if she doesn’t also have a little supersoldier in her.

They’re about 100 yards off a public beach. “You’re welcome to keep running,” he calls over his shoulder, in search of water. He’s secretly pleased to see Natasha clutching her side. “So,” he says sarcastically, “you’ll also be keeping pace on the way back?”

She cuts in front of him at the drinking fountain. “I forgot you were on such a strict schedule.”

“I’m on vacation,” says Steve, suddenly uncomfortable.

“But the clock’s ticking, isn’t it? Once Tony and Bruce fix the time machine, your girl’s gone. Not unless you can convince her going back with him is a mistake.”

“I wouldn’t - ”

“Bullshit,” Natasha interrupts. “You didn’t even wait for confirmation from S.H.I.E.L.D. before you were making bedroom eyes at her.”

“She’s married.”

“So? No girl’s going to pass up a red, white and blue shield for an aluminum crutch.”

Affronted, Steve insists, “I never said that.”

Natasha snorts. “You didn’t have to say it, not after you slammed the husband face-first into a table. You think that’s how you win her over?”

“That’s not - I’m not stupid, Natasha,” Steve says indignantly. “I know she has to go back.” He’s known all along, but the words still hurt to hear.

“And you can’t go with her,” Natasha continues. “So what’s the end game, Steve? Would it hurt less if she’d picked someone who looked like you? Or do you just want to go back to when you thought she’d mourned you all this time?”

“All this time? All this time? _‘Get over it, Steve. It’s been a lifetime.’_ No it hasn’t,” he says angrily. “It’s only been three months. Three months since she kissed me in front of God and general, yet everybody wants me to just get over it. You know what? I’m not over it. I might never be. I - ”

“You can’t go back, Steve.”

Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to him to ask.

*

“Daniel? What time is it?”

“It’s early, Peg,” says Daniel, who’d been trying to ease out of bed without waking her. No such luck. He’s stiff and he’s sore and his body’s just not cooperating. “Go back to sleep.”

“No, no,” Peggy mumbles, lifting her head off, his shirt clinging to her cheek. “I’ll get up, too.”

Daniel takes the opportunity to roll his beautiful, perfect, sleepy, _drooling_ wife off his chest. “I’m just going to the bathroom,” he says.

“Then you’ll come back to bed?” Her voice is muffled by the pillow.

He pulls the covers up, tucking them around her. “We’ll see,” he says vaguely. Peggy answers with an unladylike snore. _That’s my girl._ Daniel reaches for his crutch, ignoring how his muscles scream in protest.

He drags his prosthesis into the bathroom as quietly as he can, thinking wistfully of the drawings Bruce had shown him the night before. _Someday,_ Daniel reminds himself, grimacing as he feels a blister on the underside of his stump. It’ll be an open sore by afternoon if he dons his leg. Still, he shoves the cumbersome limb into a pair of borrowed slacks and tightens the straps, standing with a wince. He hobbles to the sink. His haggard reflection stares back. He’d slept OK, he supposes, though Peggy had been restless. Daniel runs a hand along his bruised jaw. He could really stand to shave.

“Uh, J.A.R.V.I.S.?” he calls tentatively, just as Pepper instructed, though he feels ridiculous. “You wouldn’t happen to know - ”

“Good morning, Mr. Sousa!” J.A.R.V.I.S. says, and Daniel almost topples over when the mirror lights up with the forecast for Malibu. “What can I do for you today?”

“Razor?”

“Second drawer on the right, sir.”

“No kidding,” Daniel mutters. That’s also where he’d found a discreet stash of men’s toiletries the first time he’d spent the night with Peggy when she’d still lived at Howard’s.

But when he opens the drawer, all he finds is a lethal-looking device that looks a little like the pocket taser Samberly’s been building in the lab. “It’s electric,” J.A.R.V.I.S. explains.

Daniel tries to give J.A.R.V.I.S. a suspicious look, but he only ends up frowning at himself in the mirror. “You sure this thing won’t kill me?”

“I daresay, Mr. Sousa, it’s safer than a straight razor. I can demonstrate, if you’d like?”

Daniel starts to say that won’t be necessary, then thinks of clean-shaven Captain America. “Yeah, OK.”

“Good morning, Daniel,” Pepper chirps when he walks into the kitchen twenty minutes and three arguments with J.A.R.V.I.S. later. Pepper’s hair is piled high on top of her head, and she takes a gulp of muddy-looking liquid. Then she looks up from whatever she’s reading and spits it back in the glass. She covers her hand with her mouth. “Oh my God, I didn’t even think - ”

Daniel grimaces. “That bad?”

“It’s just a lot of tissue,” Pepper says diplomatically.

“I thought I was doing OK,” says Daniel, scratching his chin with one finger, “but J.A.R.V.I.S. didn’t like my technique. Next thing I know, the mirror’s turned into a television - ”

“Well, given the circumstances, I think you’re adjusting admirably,” says Pepper. “Here.”

She’d been reading from a screen of some sorts, which she slides down the counter in Daniel’s direction. He’d noticed a similar device the day before in Tony’s lab. “What is it?”

“Go ahead, pick it up,” says Pepper. “Peggy mentioned you usually like to read the newspaper in the morning. These days, tablets have all but replaced newspapers. But I was able to download copies of the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal from June 12, 1949.”

“What, no Globe?” Daniel says, mostly in jest. He’s not even sure how to turn the thing on.

Pepper’s drinking from the glass of sludge again. “Oh, right,” she says, blinking once. “You’re from Massachusetts. Here, let me see if - ”

“Pepper, I’m kidding,” says Daniel, though he’s secretly marveling that in the future, his request isn’t even unreasonable. “Uh, how do I - ”

She shows him how to tap and swipe. The tablet is surprisingly intuitive. “Oh!” Pepper claps her hands. “I almost forgot. Coffee?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Black’s fine.”  
“Are you sure? J.A.R.V.I.S. would be happy to make you a cappuccino or a latte - ”

“What about a macchiato, Mr. Sousa?” J.A.R.V.I.S. offers. “I make a very good macchiato. Or so I’ve been told.”

But Daniel has a question of his own. “Pepper,” he asks, “how is it that J.A.R.V.I.S. can make coffee if he’s just a disembodied voice?”

“I’ll show you,” J.A.R.V.I.S. retorts. Ten minutes later, after watching half the appliances in Tony’s kitchen whir to life, Daniel’s sipping an admittedly delicious macchiato.

Which he spits all over the tablet when Natasha saunters in wearing a shockingly pink brassiere and black pants so tight-fitting they leave less to the imagination than Peggy’s skimpiest lingerie. She’s followed closely by a sweat-drenched Steve, who of course notices Daniel staring and glares.

But Natasha’s state of undress must not be unusual because Pepper doesn’t even blink when the other woman begins to rummage through the fridge. Natasha tosses a bottle of blue liquid with an orange cap to Steve, then produces a second for herself. “Lose a fight with a bear?”

“You should see the bear,” Daniel quips.

Natasha smirks. Pepper laughs. Steve finishes gulping down the blue liquid, humorless. “Oh, sure, act like shaving in the 21st century was a skill you picked right up.”

Steve crushes the empty plastic bottle in his hand and tosses it before stalking out of the kitchen.

“His loss,” Natasha says with a shrug. “Bacon?”

Daniel weighs his options. “I could eat bacon,” he says cautiously as a door slams elsewhere in the house.

“Is Peggy still in bed?”

“Not for long if she smells bacon,” says Daniel. “Actually, you better make the whole package, or there won’t be any left for us.”

Natasha quirks an eyebrow. “Pepper?”

“Oh no,” she says, placing her now-empty glass in the sink. “I need to hop on a conference call. If Tony emerges, there’s turkey bacon in the drawer. He’s supposed to be watching his cholesterol.”

Daniel waits until Pepper’s out of earshot to ask, “What happens in the future that you run out of pigs?” He’s also wondering how Natasha’s going to cook bacon without splattering grease on her bare midriff.

“Swine flu. It was horrible,” Natasha deadpans, “an epidemic. Pigs dying left and right. Mounds of pork spoiling in the sun. We ended up having to nuke Iowa.”

Daniel blinks. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“Which one?” says Natasha with wry smile.

He starts to chuckle appreciatively, which triggers a sharp pain in his ribs. “Don’t make me laugh,” he tells her. _It hurts like hell._

“How many ribs did Steve break?”

Daniel shakes his head. “Just bruised, that’s all,” he says quickly.

Natasha prods the now-sizzling bacon with a fork. “You would know the difference,” she says. It’s an appraisal.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “A man who doesn’t flinch when he’s being tied to a chair has seen the business end of an interrogation before.” Natasha clears her throat. “Though I would like to apologize for taking your leg.”

Unlike Steve, she actually sounds sincere. Not that it lessens the humiliation Daniel had felt. He can barely stand to let _Peggy_ touch his wrecked limb on good days, which yesterday hadn’t been. “Yeah, well,” he says, “take it up with my wife. She’s not keen on other women taking off my pants.” He hastily averts his eyes as Natasha reaches into a cabinet for a plate, shapely rear end on display.

“Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble, Chief Sousa.”

Daniel watches her flip the bacon, trying to wrap his head around the turn of events that has the woman who’d roughly unstrapped his prosthesis yesterday making him breakfast today. “So,” he says, lacing his fingers, “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

“Do you expect answers?”

“I thought you felt bad about cutting me off at the knee.”

She drops her elbows to the counter, cleavage threatening to spill out of her pink bra. “I suppose we could get to know each other better. I did take your pants off yesterday.”

There is literally nowhere safe for Daniel to look. He ends up picking a spot just over Natasha’s head. “What can you tell me about the Underwood Protocol?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking your wife? She’s the one who develops it.”

“But she hasn’t yet.” Daniel rubs his mouth, unsure if he should let his guard down. “Look, 1949, Dottie’s still running circles around us. Last time we saw her, she was shooting another agent in the back. I can’t imagine us capturing her at this point, let alone giving her a shot at redemption.”

The plate of bacon lands in front of him with a clatter. “Then don’t think of it as redemption.”

*

Peggy heaves up what little there is left in her stomach before settling back on the cool tile, still gripping the porcelain basin for support. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Sweat dampens her forehead.

_You’re pregnant._

The signs, the symptoms - Peggy had blamed the nausea and fatigue on a heavy caseload and too many dinners from the taco truck, even as Rose clucked her tongue disapprovingly from the bathroom doorway - come into sharp focus, a mountain of evidence she can no longer ignore. If Peggy’s being honest with herself, the possibility has been right there for weeks. She grabs one of her breasts, still too tender to be touched, and hisses in pain. She tries to remember the date of her last period.

Peggy groans.

Daniel will be over the moon, of course. She imagines him handing out cigars to their coworkers at the LA office, beaming as they tease him good-naturedly. But in hushed tones they’ll also ask the question she’s been dreading: _so does this mean Carter’s leaving the SSR?_

Then again, everything she’s imagining hinges on them making it back to 1949, and soon. What if they’re trapped here for weeks or even months? What would happen if she wandered in with a swollen belly? If it takes that long for Tony and Bruce to fix the time machine, will they even have jobs to return to?

_Daniel would. You wouldn’t._

Peggy closes her eyes. She begins to lean forward but catches herself when she realizes she’s about to rest her head on a toilet. That’s when it dawns on her that there’s a far worse possibility than going back visibly pregnant.

It’s going back not pregnant at all.

Now Peggy’s heart beats very fast, and a minute later she’s vomiting again, retching, heaving, shaking until there’s nothing but bile to spit out. She slumps against the toilet and doesn’t care where she puts her face because all she can think about is having to tell Daniel she’s lost their baby. She’d only be setting him up for disappointment, because what are the odds she can have a healthy pregnancy now? Their beautiful, dark-haired children will have to wait. No way were they exposed to Zero Matter in the womb.

This is Peggy’s fault for believing Howard could be trusted with a specimen so dangerous.

She tries to stand, but she’s woozy. She sways on her feet, has to grip the bathroom counter for balance.

“Are you all right, Ms. Carter? I can summon Mr. Sousa if you’d - ”

“That really won’t be necessary, Mr. Jarvis,” Peggy interrupts, though she’s still clinging to the toilet for dear life. “I mean, J.A.R.V.I.S.”

“Mint tea? Ginger ale?”

“Really,” Peggy grits, not sure how to tell the robot his fussing is only make it worse. She misses the real Jarvis, who would undoubtedly be hovering outside the bathroom door if he thought she was unwell. “I’m quite all right.”

Eventually she manages to dress and comb her hair. She’s tempted to skip makeup entirely, and if she only had to face Daniel, she would. But Steve will be downstairs, and so will the rest of the Avengers. So she dusts powder on her cheeks, a quick coat of rouge, mascara for good measure. Her mouth falls open so she can apply her signature lip color. Well. Maybe not quite. But Pepper had tried.

Peggy almost makes it to the kitchen, too. Then she smells the bacon cooking, and her stomach lurches unpleasantly. She makes it to the hall bathroom just in time.

There’s a knock. “Peggy?” Pepper calls, concerned. “Everything OK?”

Peggy can’t answer on account she’s choking up more bile. Pepper lets herself in. Peggy forces a smile. “Sour stomach, I’m afraid.”

Pepper’s tone is gentle, but her words pack a punch. “Do you know how far along you are?”

Peggy’s mouth falls open. Her instinct is to deny everything, but she knows in this case, the truth’s written all over her face. Besides, if she’s to keep this pregnancy from Daniel, she may end up needing a good ally. “Two months?” she guesses. “I’ve only just - ” her voice cracks.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Pepper orders, “make an appointment with Dr. Calbert. Tell her it’s for me.”

“Really, Ms. Potts - ”

“Call me Pepper.”

“ - that won’t be necessary,” Peggy insists, though she might be more convincing if she weren’t blinking back tears.

Pepper helps Peggy to her feet. “Does Daniel know?”

“Please don’t tell him,” Peggy begs. “Please, Pepper, he can’t - ”

“Dr. Calbert can see you at 11 o’clock,” says J.A.R.V.I.S. “Shall I clear your schedule?”

“Yes, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Pepper replies. She seems to be studying Peggy, but she thankfully doesn’t press telling Daniel. “Ms. Sousa is going to need a photo I.D. as well. Can you work something up on such short notice?”

“Certainly, Ms. Potts,” says J.A.R.V.I.S. “Will a driver’s license suffice? Otherwise I can print up a U.S. passport.”

“I’m not actually an American - ” suddenly Peggy’s face is displayed on the wall, superimposed on what must be a modern California driver’s license “ - citizen,” she finishes lamely. It lists her actual date of birth and address in 1949 Los Angeles.

Pepper clucks her tongue. “J.A.R.V.I.S.” Peggy’s year of birth switches from 1921 to 1984. “It’ll be OK, Peggy,” Pepper promises. “We’ll take care of you.”

Peggy can’t let herself believe it.

*

“There you are,” says Pepper, and Tony falls out of his chair.

Gracefully. With dignity. Like he’d meant to pass out atop his father’s old notes, now clinging to his cheek. “I’m up! I’m up!”

“Let me guess,” Pepper says, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “you meant to do that?”

“Of course I did,” says Tony. Instead of taking the hand she extends, he grabs her wrist to check the time. “Just like I meant to wake up at precisely 9:06.”

“Uh huh,” says Pepper, and that’s when Tony notices she’s wearing linen capris and a chambray button-down.

He arches an eyebrow. “So what, we’re doing casual Wednesday now?”

“Tony, it’s Tuesday.” Pepper clears her throat. “I thought I’d take the day, show Peggy the city.”

Tony studies his girlfriend. “You’re lying.” It’s a statement of fact, not an accusation. “No way you cancel a meeting of the Stark Foundation board to go shopping. Not when half of Midtown is still buried under rubble.”

Pepper sighs. “If you must know, I’m taking Peggy to the doctor. She’s not feeling the best. You know. Because she took a flying piece of Iron Man to the head yesterday.” She kisses Tony. “Please don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. Like brag to Daniel you gave her a concussion.”

“What happened to you telling me not to make promises I can’t keep?” Tony calls after her. As soon as he hears the door shut behind her, he asks, “Hey, J.A.R.V.I.S., where’s Mr. Peggy?”

“You mean Chief Sousa, sir? He’s in your lab with Dr. Banner.”

“Who let them in there?”

“I did, sir. You told me to.”

Tony frowns. “J.A.R.V.I.S., don’t listen to me anymore.”

“Gladly, sir.”

Tony jogs up the two flights of stairs to his own lab, where Bruce is kneeling over Sousa’s groin. Knee. Whatever. “Bruce! He’s married.” He smirks as the scientist loses his balance and topples over. Sousa’s already rolling down his pant leg. Tony snaps his fingers. “You, with me.”

Sousa jerks a thumb at his chest. “Me?”

“See any other members of your barbershop quartet?” Tony turns to Bruce. “Can he do stairs on that thing?”

Bruce is wiping grease off his hands. “I don’t know, Tony. Why don’t you ask him? He’s standing right there.”

“I can do stairs,” Sousa huffs.

Tony turns back to Bruce. “But if he gets stuck down there, can the other guy get him out? No,” he says, wagging his finger. “You stay here.”

Tony feels a little surge of anger as he watches Sousa clop down the stairs. What had his father been doing in 1949 that was so important he couldn’t have made a few modifications to Sousa’s prosthesis?

Not that Tony offers his help. He watches Sousa pause at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, like he needs to steel himself to walk the twenty or so feet into Howard’s lab. “Not so quick with your crutch today,” Tony observes. “Did the missus keep you up, Mr. Carter?”

Apparently Tony’s going to have to try harder to get a rise out of Sousa because all the man does is smile. “No complaints,” he says, settling on one of the lab stools so he can extend his leg. “I’m a lucky man.”

“And your wife, does she have any complaints?” Tony’s gaze settles on Sousa’s stiff knee. “Or is it just the leg that doesn’t work?”

Now Tony’s getting somewhere because while Sousa’s demeanor doesn’t change, there’s a flicker of self-doubt in those dark, soulful eyes. “Did you drag me down here to insult me, Stark?”

“No,” says Tony, and he cuts to the chase. “I wanted to take advantage of your wife’s absence to ask you what really went down in my old man’s lab yesterday.”

Sousa arches an eyebrow. “Why would Peg and I lie to you?”

“I generally assume people are being untruthful until proven otherwise,” Tony says, and he picks up a wrench, which he points at Sousa. “Also, I never said ‘lie.’ Why’d you?”

Sousa motions for the wrench. “Give me that.” Tony drops it into Sousa’s outstretched hand. “It could be the wrench I handed your dad right before everything went dark. Weight’s right.”

Tony snatches the wrench back, ignoring the smug, _see I didn’t skimp on the details_ expression on Sousa’s face. “‘Weight’s right,’” he repeats. “I thought you were a spook.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I leave the spy stuff to Peg.”

“Very women’s lib, letting your wife do the dirty work,” Tony remarks. “So you don’t work with your hands, but you seem confident that’s the right wrench. What’d you do before you got called up?”

Now Sousa’s really starting to look irritated. “I’ll have you know I enlisted.”

“Same difference,” Tony says flippantly.

“No, not actually,” says Sousa. “Not that I’d expect a Stark to understand.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

Tony’s rearranging the pieces of the broken mirror again. “It bothers you,” he explains, “that my father didn’t serve. You think he should have.”

He watches a muscle twitch near Sousa’s eye. “To answer your question, I worked in the shipyard before the war. Just like every other guy from my hometown.”

“Don’t tell me they didn’t have any openings for one-legged shipbuilders after the war.”

“Look,” says Sousa through gritted teeth, “that’s the wrench Howard was using right before all hell broke loose. You don’t have to believe me. But I was an Army reconnaissance scout for three years, and before that, a mechanic. I might sit at a desk all day now, I haven’t forgotten how to use my hands.”

“Good skill to have, especially once the honeymoon period’s over,” Tony quips. He gives Sousa a half-second to get the joke, then continues, “Speaking of which, I’m surprised you were willing to let the missus out of your sight.”

“Tell you what, Stark, why don’t you try telling Peggy what to do? See how it works out.” Sousa’s tone is even, but his Adam’s apple bobs. This tells Tony the Sousas had, in fact, disagreed as to whether Peggy would leave with Pepper. “Do you have any real questions for me?”

Without answering, Tony calls, “J.A.R.V.I.S., scan the wrench.”

“For what, sir?”

“I don’t know,” says Tony, waving his hand, “just scan it.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to carry it upstairs for me, sir.”

“That’s it, J.A.R.V.I.S. You and Dum-E both, City College.” Tony heaves a tremendous sigh, then remembers Sousa’s still there. “Give this to Bruce, will you?”

But Sousa doesn’t take the wrench. “Are you kidding me?”

Tony isn’t. It’s clear he’s not going to get any new information out of Sousa, which decreases his usefulness. “I’m trying to write an advanced geophysical equation that transcends time and space to send you home. The least you can do is carry a wrench up two flights of stairs. Or do you need both hands for the crutch?”

Sousa snatches the wrench from Tony. “Funny,” he says, jaw clenched. “Your old man was just telling me how much less he likes Peg now that she’s married to me.”

*

**_Malibu, June 1949_ **

“Sir,” says Jarvis, rousing Howard from a dream involving both Rose Hobart _and_ Barbara Stanwyck, “Miss Roberts and Dr. Samberly are here.”

Howard has to blink several times before his eyes adjust to the overhead lights. Last he remembers, he was trying to write an equation for the Sousas’ estimated velocity when they left. “Who?” Howard demands. “Where’s my pencil, Jarvis?” If he could just figure out how fast Peggy and Daniel were traveling. Then he might have some idea where to send Jarvis to retrieve them. Unfortunately all of his U’s look like u’s look like v’s in the cold light of day. Howard sighs.

Jarvis tugs the pencil out from behind his boss’ ear. “They also work at the SSR.”

“The SSR?” Howard hisses. “What were you thinking, calling in the - ”

“You asked me to, sir,” says Jarvis with considerable restraint.

Howard snatches the pencil back. “Huh.” He scratches his chin. “Don’t listen to me anymore.”

“Gladly, sir.”

“Miss Roberts” turns out to be the squat redhead who bakes an apple pie even better than Jarvis’ apple torte. She sashays into the lab, that blowhard scientist Sousa’s always begging Howard to hire away from the SSR trailing after her.

“Well, _hello,”_ says Howard because he likes a self-confident woman, “I don’t suppose you brought me any of that - ”

Rose socks him in the jaw. “That’s for whatever you’ve done to Peg,” she declares, drawing her fist back for another punch, “and this is for Chief - ”

Howard ducks just in time. “Jarvis, that woman just hit me,” he complains.

“Really, sir? I hadn’t noticed.”

“What? It happened right in front of - ” Howard breaks off, seeing now how rigidly Jarvis stands, how unamused he is. The vein at his temple bulges. His jaw quivers in barely suppressed rage. _Uh oh._ Howard swallows. “You,” he says, beckoning for Samberly to come closer, “look at my notes. I’m going to have a quick word with my butler, and when I get back, I want a full report on whatever stroke of brilliance I was about to have when I fell asleep.”

He drags Jarvis out in the hallway. “Talk to me, Jarvis.”

“Sir, in the interest of my continued employment, I must respectfully decline.”

“You’re angry,” Howard surmises.

“I am - ” there goes the vein again, though Jarvis’ tone doesn’t change “ - enraged, sir.”

Howard rubs his mouth. _Damage control._ “I made a mistake,” he admits.

“A mistake, sir, is calling the actress you’ve been seeing by her housekeeper’s name,” says Jarvis. “You taught me that, sir.” His voice cracks. “This - this - ”

Howard’s never dealt well with other people’s emotions, so he rests his forearm against the wall and stares at the floor. Which is made of imported Italian marble. It’s beautiful. “I fucked up, Jarvis,” he murmurs, “but I’ll fix it, OK? As soon as I’ve figured out where they are, you can go - ”

“No.”

“No?” Howard repeats. “C’mon, Jarvis, you know I’d go, but something tells me I’m the last person Peggy wants to see right now.”

“You,” says Jarvis, cheeks stained with tears when he lifts his chin, “are a careless, reckless man for whom I will not work another day if you fail to return Ms. Carter and Chief Sousa unharmed.”

Howard swallows. He’s about to concede that would be entirely fair when Rose clears her throat. “Aloysius says he has something you ought to see, Mr. Stark.”

“Aloysius?” says Howard, frowning. “Who the hell is - ”

“I am,” Samberly huffs. He’s holding a piece of chalk, which Howard plucks from his hand.

“Who said you could write on my chalkboard?” he asks, frowning as he studies the scribbled Lorentz transformation. It’s habit: Howard starts plugging in variables. “This is good,” he says grudgingly. “Very good. Did you copy my notes?”

 _“No,”_ Samberly says indignantly. “Why does everyone always underestimate me? I have degrees from - ”

“Just tell them what you told me, Aloysius,” Rose interrupts.

Samberly looks sorry to forfeit an opportunity to list his credentials, but he listens to Rose. “Well, we’re here, right?” he says. “And while we’re here, something could happen somewhere else. We might not see it, but we could conclude it happened at the same time. Only - what if it didn’t? To another inertial observer - ”

“Sixty-three,” Howard calls out. “Jarvis, what’s 63 miles from here?”

“Well, sir, obviously it would depend on the direction of travel, whether you were trying to avoid - ”

Samberly steals the chalk back. “It’s time, you idiot,” he snaps, “not distance. You’ve sent them 63 years in the future.”

Jarvis gasps.

Howard blinks, mentally checking Samberly’s math. “Dammit, Samberly, you’re right. You know what this means?”

“We’re never going to see Carter or Sousa ever again?” the scientist asks.

“There’s a reason nobody likes you,” Howard quips. “No, it means _I - ”_ he jabs his thumb toward his chest “ - just invented the world’s first time machine. Not bad for an idiot. Now, here’s what we’re going to need to get - ”

A door slams.

“I’m listening,” Samberly prompts.

But Jarvis isn’t. In fact, he and Rose have both left the lab. Howard can hear her in the hall, trying to talk Jarvis down. It occurs to him even if he can get Peggy and Daniel back - which he _will -_ he might still lose the best butler he’s ever had.

*

**_Meanwhile, somewhere in New Jersey ..._ **

“A fool’s errand,” Clint complains, tearing off a hunk of his sandwich with his teeth and scattering crumbs across Director Carter’s old desk. He can’t believe he’s stuck in New Jersey while the rest of the team gets facetime with the founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. herself. “Seriously, how long can Fury keep punishing me?” he asks bitterly through a mouthful of meatball special.

Natasha, in Malibu, says, “Do you want an honest answer?”

Clint thinks about it as he chews. “No.”

“He’ll come around.”

Clint’s not so sure. Natasha hadn’t wanted to tell him on the helicarrier how many agents he’d killed while under Loki’s control, but it hadn’t exactly been hard information to track down. Clint clears his throat. “So what’s she like?”

“What’s who like?”

“Peggy Carter, of course.” Clint kicks his feet up on her desk. It’s heavy and old, nothing like the sleek, modern tables that pass for workstations at headquarters in D.C. He idly yanks one of the drawers open. It’s full of the usual detritus, bent paperclips and broken rubber bands. “Nat?”

“We’re the same age,” Natasha says thoughtfully.

“You and Director Carter are? No kidding.”

“I’ve never seen her so young,” Natasha continues, “not in any of the portraits at HQ.”

Clint doesn’t calculate ages, but he does swing his legs off the desk. That’s when he notices the piece of crumpled paper caught in the back of the drawer. He begins working it free. “Well, have you talked to her?”

“I made the husband breakfast this morning.”

Clint stops what he’s doing. “How come you never make me breakfast?”

“Because I have other ways to get you to talk,” Natasha says playfully, which throws Clint for a loop. He’d been surprised, too, when she’d answered his terrible come-on instead of shutting off her comms piece for the night. “He wanted to know what made me defect.”

“And what did you tell him?” Clint asks, resuming efforts to dislodge the scrap of paper without tearing it.

“He says they haven’t caught Underwood yet.” It’s a non-answer, but Clint’s used to those from Natasha. “How’s Camp Lehigh?”

Clint finds himself staring at a black-and-white photograph of a husband and wife - _yeah, that’s Peggy Carter all right_ \- with their two kids. He wonders for a half-second why she hadn’t taken it with her, then decides it had probably been trapped in the desk since well before S.H.I.E.L.D. moved offices. “Actually, I just found a photo of Mr. and Mrs. Sousa.” He studies it for a minute before returning it to the drawer. “They look happy.”

“They’ve been inseparable.”

“I’m sure that has nothing to do with the sudden reappearance of her presumed dead ex-lover,” Clint says sarcastically, “or the time travel.”

“Steve’s sulking.”

Clint picks up his half-eaten sandwich and tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Has the mission objective changed?”

Natasha feigns ignorance. “What mission?”

“C’mon, Nat,” says Clint, “we both know why you’re in Malibu.” He wonders where it leaves him, once she’s convinced Steve to join S.H.I.E.L.D. He’s neither god nor supersoldier nor billionaire in an iron suit. No, Clint’s just an ordinary guy who happens to be decent with a bow and arrow. He knows his days working with Natasha are numbered. “Listen, I should get back to it. There’s enough stuff just in her office to keep me here for days.”

“Why did Fury say S.H.I.E.L.D. abandoned Camp Lehigh?”

“He didn’t,” says Clint glumly. “Enjoy Malibu.” He signs off, absently tugging on the top drawer again. But this time, it doesn’t budge. Clint tries again, but a full minute of frustrated pulling does nothing to unstick the locked drawer.

That’s when he realizes the drawer’s changed. Not only is the handle different, there are three drawers where there had been two. Somehow the entire desk’s changed right under his nose. Clint’s about to radio Natasha, tell her to get Tony and Bruce on the horn, when he hears two voices in the hallway.

“I’m telling you, no one’s here.”

“What about the truck, huh? Funny place to break down if you ask - ”

“Nobody asked you,” snaps the first man. “You want some advice? Stop playing cards with Zola. It’s making you paranoid. Jesus Christ, I’m asking Senator Boynton for a new assignment.”

It’s automatic: Clint reaches over his shoulder for an arrow, only to remember his quiver’s out in the truck. All he has is his sidearm tucked under his civilian clothes. The gun feels strange in his hand as he slips silently out of the chair and crouches behind the desk.

The second man sniffs. “You smell that? Smells like ... _marinara sauce.”_

“No, it - ” he breaks off. “Who’s there? I’m an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Show yourself!”

Clint doesn’t relax his grip on the P30. Fury hadn’t said anything about sending more agents to Lehigh.

“That’s it,” the first speaker declares, “I’m going in.” The door opens with a bang. “You know,” he calls, “this would be easier if you’d just show yourself.”

If Natasha were here, she’d have already neutralized the threat. But Natasha’s not here. Clint’s going to have to sort this one out on his own.

He lunges.

The first guy - Clint’s come to think of him as “the complainer” - goes down easily enough. It’s an elbow to the solar plexus, an uppercut to the jaw, pistol-whip for good measure. He’s not a Level 7 agent for nothing.

But hell, maybe the other guy is, too, because he proves much harder to take out. This one, the cardplayer, seizes the back of Clint’s jacket and slams him face-first into a metal filing cabinet. Clint tries to fire on his assailant, but his ears are ringing and his equilibrium’s off. The bullet hits the far wall.

 _“Barton,”_ the other man growls. “What are you doing in the old lady’s office?”

Clint ducks under the man’s swinging arm. No way an actual agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. would dare disparage Peggy Carter. “I’m telling Director Fury you said that,” he says, blocking one punch but taking another to the gut. “Who are you? Who are you protecting?”

“You won’t find out,” the man taunts, a second before breaking at least two of Clint’s ribs.

Doubled over, Clint fires blindly. His attacker grunts, then drops off Clint’s back to the floor. Clint reaches for his comms piece without bothering to straighten. His vision’s already starting to blur.

A silky voice purrs, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

And the newcomer, a woman, cocks her gun.

*

**_Greater Los Angeles, present day_ **

“Peggy,” Pepper prompts gently, “we can’t leave until you buckle up.”

They’re still sitting in the strip mall parking lot outside the gynecologist’s office, a pamphlet on the benefits of breastfeeding open on the younger woman’s lap. “Right,” says Peggy, reaching for the belt.

Pepper, who’d had an hour to kill in the waiting room while Peggy met with the doctor, tries not to think about the fact that seatbelts won’t come standard on most cars until the late 1950s. Just one of the many baby boom pregnancy and child-rearing facts she’d been looking up instead of answering emails. Now Pepper’s terrified, and she’s not even the one who’s pregnant.

Still, she smiles brightly and asks Peggy, “So when are you due?”

“Dr. Calbert thought December.”

Pepper can’t help herself. “A Christmas baby!” she gushes, getting on the 101. “How sweet.”

Peggy murmurs politely, then turns her attention back to an “Entering Your Second Trimester” brochure.

Pepper finds herself drumming on the steering wheel to break up the silence. “Well, Daniel will undoubtedly be excited. I wish you would have asked him to come. Dr. Calbert doesn’t ask too many questions. He probably would have liked seeing the sonogram. Did you at least get a - ”

“I would prefer this stay between us for the time being, Pepper,” Peggy interrupts.

Pepper hadn’t gone back with Peggy, and she’s starting to wonder if she should have. “Peggy, if Dr. Calbert gave you bad news, then you should really tell your husband. I’m sure Daniel would be - ” Pepper has to brake very suddenly to avoid a collision with a merging car. “Are you OK?”

“Fine,” says Peggy, though she’s two shades paler than she had been.

Pepper spends the drive to Malibu coming up with increasingly implausible scenarios for why Peggy doesn’t want Daniel to know about the baby. Finally, she stops the car at the gate at the bottom of the long, winding drive to Tony’s mansion. _You live there, too,_ Pepper has to remind herself.

“Is it Steve?” Pepper blurts. “Is that why you don’t want to tell Daniel about the baby?” It’s only after she asks that she realizes what an intimate, inappropriate question that is. “Oh my gosh,” she says. “I am so - Peggy?”

Because Peggy’s burst into tears. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I could see why you - but no, it has nothing to do with Steve.”

She looks so young, so vulnerable, and it’s a strange position for Pepper to be in. Because the Peggy she met years ago was already an old woman. Pepper slides a tentative hand across Peggy’s shoulders as she cries. “Then what is it, Peggy?”

“It’s Daniel,” Peggy sniffles. “It’s my husband, who will undoubtedly be the world’s most amazing father. Pepper, he’s already apologizing for passing on those big ears, though he ought to know by now I find them charming, and mark my words, he’ll drive himself nuts trying to figure out who arrives first, our son or our daughter.”

Pepper’s not sure what makes her say, “You can find out now. In a few weeks, Dr. Calbert will be able to tell you if it’s a boy or a girl,” which of course triggers a fresh round of tears. Pepper cringes inwardly. _Why would you point out Peggy and Daniel might be here awhile?_ “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I keep saying the wrong - ” she breaks off. “This isn’t the first time I’ve met you, you know.”

Peggy lifts her chin. “I beg your pardon?”

“I met you once, years ago,” Pepper continues because apparently she can’t control it. “I’ve been trying since last night to recall the occasion. State dinner? Weapons expo? I’d only been Tony’s assistant for a few months, though I’d already outlasted all my predecessors. Everyone warned me he would try to sleep with me. Well, that night he walked over to me with two flutes of champagne.”

“Pepper,” says Peggy, “why are you - ”

“But instead of offering me a drink, you know what Tony does? He downs one and points to you. ‘You see that woman over there?’” He’d actually said “old woman,” but Pepper decides not to tell Peggy this. “‘She knew my father. If you can keep her away from me, I’ll double your salary.’ So I walk over and introduce myself as Tony’s assistant. Do you know what you said?”

“How could I possibly know, Pepper?” Peggy asks, though she’s no longer crying.

Still, Pepper rushes on before she can get too far away from her point. “‘It’s so good to see you again.’” For years, _years,_ she’d assumed Director Carter, co-founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. and one of the most powerful women in the world, had mistaken her for one of Tony’s flings. “Peggy, don’t you see? You recognized me. You and Daniel must make it back, or - ”

“Of course we’ll make it home,” Peggy interjects. “If Tony’s half as brilliant as his - ” the sob catches in her throat “ - but in what condition? I can’t imagine all this - this - no, Pepper, I can’t put Daniel through that. This has nothing to do with Steve. Please don’t think it does.”

“Oh, Peggy,” says Pepper, the pieces falling into place. Peggy’s afraid she’ll miscarry. She thinks about the scar she’d glimpsed on Peggy’s abdomen when she’d reached up to admire one of Pepper’s blouses and her own shirt had ridden up. Pepper had gasped at what was obviously a grievous injury, but Peggy had only shrugged. Now Pepper wonders if perhaps Peggy’s ability to even have children was in question. “Listen to me. You said it yourself, you and Daniel have two beautiful - ”

“But I don’t know if _this_ baby is one of them,” Peggy points out. “Just please, Pepper. Don’t tell Daniel. He’d be devastated if I lost his baby.”

Privately, Pepper thinks Peggy would be equally devastated, but all she does is nod as they wind their way up the long driveway to the house.

*

Here’s what Steve remembers about the Ardennes Counteroffensive: it had been cold, brutally so. The snow had blown in and kept the Allied aircraft grounded, so they’d had to hike in on foot. He’d at least had the supersoldier serum to keep him warm. The other Howling Commandos weren’t so lucky. Falsworth, Morita and Jones had all ended up with frostbite. Dernier actually lost a toe.

But mostly Steve remembers his radio getting smashed, and Bucky’s radio getting smashed, and Dum Dum having to sacrifice his radio when the first remote detonator they’d rigged had failed. It had left them without a way to communicate with Peggy and Colonel Phillips, though the mission had been a resounding success. Not only had they blown the HYDRA facility that was their target off the map, they’d managed to bust through a German blockade that had pinned the Allies down for months. He found out later they’d saved over a thousand men.

Including Peggy’s future husband, apparently.

It makes Steve’s memory of what happened next almost bittersweet. When they’d finally reached Verdun, six days behind schedule, Peggy had reprimanded him in front of the rest of the Howling Commandos and General Eisenhower himself. After spending about five minutes making sure the men who’d marched with them to France would get food and medical attention, Steve had ignored Bucky’s sniggers and followed Peggy back to her tent, where he’d spent two hours making up for his tardiness. Two blissful hours.

Then Dum Dum was hollering for Steve to put on pants, the Howling Commandos had Nazis to fight.

At the time, Steve hadn’t given much thought to what became of the men they rescued. They’d left most of them behind in Bastogne to ward off the advancing German line. Now Steve is horrified to learn just how many of them perished in Belgium. What was it Sousa had said?

_You know what I’m sorry for? I’m sorry I squandered Captain America’s rescue ..._

And he’d been one of the lucky ones. He’d made it home, maybe not whole, maybe not intact, but alive. Hell, he’d gone on to marry Peggy. Steve’s not going to waste time feeling sorry for the man. He slams the laptop closed.

“Is everything all right, Captain Rogers?”

“Just fine, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Steve mutters.

“I have the results of the inquiry you requested I make, if you’re interested.”

Steve frowns. “What inquiry?”

“Earlier, sir, when you were pounding on the trackpad with your fist. You demanded an easier way to look up Chief Sousa’s military records. They’re here in his S.H.I.E.L.D. file, if you’d like.”

Without waiting for Steve’s response, J.A.R.V.I.S. projects a letter from Sousa’s commanding officer on the wall, detailing the sergeant's heroics at Bastogne, which apparently didn’t end when he got shot. No, Sousa gave up his place in the evac line twice to give men who served under him a better shot at surviving their injuries. He’d been awarded a Purple Heart and the Bronze Star with Valor.

And, grudgingly, Steve’s respect for Sousa goes up a notch.

“There’s more, Captain Rogers,” says J.A.R.V.I.S. “I have Sgt. Sousa’s enlistment papers, as well as documentation on an earlier Purple Heart and - ”

“That won’t be necessary,” Steve says quickly. He’s seen enough to know he would have liked Sousa, or at least respected the man, if only he hadn’t gone on to marry Peggy.

Steve’s already run umpteen miles today, but he could still stand to work off some aggression. He laces his tennis shoes and goes off in search of the gym Pepper had shown him on the tour of Tony’s sprawling mansion. Of course, Steve ends up hopelessly turned around.

“You look like you could use something to punch,” the billionaire drawls when Steve finds him lounging on a couch. Before Steve can ask where the gym is, Tony’s pointing down the hallway. “Third door on your right.”

Only there isn’t any exercise equipment when Steve opens the door because Tony’s directions lead straight to the Sousas’ guest room, where Peggy’s husband sits with his pant leg rolled up, prosthesis propped against the chair.

“Honestly, Daniel,” Peggy is saying, and Steve sees now that she’s bandaging what little’s left of Sousa’s leg, “it’s like you learned nothing from the Council of Nine fiasco.”

“It’s not that bad, Peg,” Sousa mutters.

“Not that bad?” Peggy repeats, unstoppering a bottle of iodine. “Then please, Daniel, enlighten me. When does an open wound become bad? Must it be infected? Because frankly I don’t think infection is outside the realm of possibility.”

But Sousa’s not listening. “Peg,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the door, where Steve still stands, frozen.

“I - ” Steve starts, though before he can mumble something about bad directions, Peggy’s risen to her feet.

“You what?” she demands, arms crossed. “What excuse could you possibly have for barging in on us?” Here’s a woman who’s fired a gun at him before, and somehow her tone is more lethal. “Well?”

“Peg,” says Sousa, though he does not rise. Of course he doesn’t. He can’t. “I’m sure it was an accident.”

Steve finds his voice. “I was trying to find the gym.”

“Which this obviously isn’t,” Peggy says coolly. “Now if you’d please get out.”

He’d been embarrassed to walk in on what was obviously a private moment between husband and wife. But being told _shoo, scram, get out_ pushes Steve over the edge. “Fine,” he snaps. “But the Peggy Carter I knew? She would have been happy to see me.”

“Is that so?” Peggy counters, almost sweetly. “Because the Steve Rogers I remember wouldn’t look disdainfully at a man who’d risked life and given limb for his country.”

And she slams the door in his face.

There’s one room in Tony’s mansion that isn’t hard to find: his lab. “J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Steve snarls, banging on the glass, “let me in.” He watches Bruce’s head jerk up, then Tony’s.

“My apologies, Captain Rogers, but I’m going to have to ask you to - ”

But Tony had been right about Steve being in the mood to punch something. He pounds on the glass again, until finally someone - probably Bruce - relents and lets him into the lab.

Steve rounds on Tony. “This is all a joke to you, isn’t it?”

“I take it you didn’t find that punching bag,” Tony replies dryly. He doesn’t flinch, even as Steve jabs a finger at the arc reactor in Tony’s chest.

“You had to know what you were doing when you flipped that switch,” Steve accuses. “You don’t grow up with a time machine in the basement and not - ”

“If I’d known what I was doing, don’t you think I would have brought back Rita Hayworth?” Tony interjects.

“Steve,” Bruce says uneasily, “I thought we all agreed last night there was no way to know what would happen. Let’s just focus on fixing the problem - ”

“Fixing the problem?” Steve snorts. “Is that what this is?” At least Bruce has the good sense to look guilty about tinkering with one of the prototype prostheses from Howard’s lab. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

“No one said anything about picking - ”

But before Bruce can finish, Tony declares, “Well, I’m obviously on Team Captain America.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve challenges. “Is that why you sent me in there?”

Bruce frowns. “In where?” Steve doesn’t answer. “Tony.”

“Yeah, Tony,” says Steve, tongue flickering over his lower lip, “tell him how instead of pointing me toward the gym, you gave me directions to Peggy’s room.”

“Technically - ” Tony lifts a finger “ - I only said you looked like you needed something to punch. Though, hmm. After yesterday, I could see how that might be bad advice. OK, disregard.”

Steve lunges. So does Tony, knocking over a stool in his haste to get away. Bruce only barely manages to restrain the supersoldier. “Settle down,” he pants, as Steve continues to struggle. “C’mon, Steve, it’s not - he’s not - ”

It’s not hard to shake Bruce off. “You know what Peggy was doing?”

Tony squints at the clock. “Let’s see, 2:30 ... afternoon delight?”

Steve’s nostrils flare. “She’s up there having to play nursemaid.”

“Kinky,” says Tony. “I wouldn’t have pegged them as the roleplaying - ”

Steve slams his fist down so hard the prosthetic leg jumps off the table. _“This is your fault,”_ he roars. “Your fault - ”

Bruce has to get between them again. “Tony, can you give us a minute?”

“You’re kicking me out of my own lab?” Steve reaches around Bruce to grab a fistful of Tony’s shirt. “You’re kicking me out of my own lab.”

“Ignore it,” Bruce instructs as Tony makes faces at them through the glass. He steps in front of Steve to block his view. “Start with what’s wrong with Sousa. What symptoms is he having? We need to rule out time travel as the - ”

“He’s not sick,” Steve interrupts. He shakes his head. “He’s hurt. He’s got Peggy wrapping his ... his ... _stump_ with gauze and fussing at him to take it easy.”

“Residual limb,” Bruce corrects, though he averts his eyes even as he says this. “We don’t call it a stump anymore. It’s a residual limb.”

“Whatever,” Steve mutters. He doesn’t care what Bruce wants to call it. It won’t change the fact Peggy was tending to her husband like a child with a skinned knee. “I don’t know what she sees in him. He can’t give her the life she deserves. No, she’ll be stuck sitting around, taking care of him.”

“Sit around?” Bruce quirks an eyebrow. “Steve, I’ve only known the woman for 24 hours, and the only sitting around she’s done was when she was literally tied to the chair.”

But Steve’s on a roll. “I hate seeing her with him. There, I said it. Happy? I hate watching him drag himself around. I hate knowing Peggy’s whole life now is taking care of that ... _that cripple.”_ Now that Steve’s said it, the word feels ugly. Still, he glares defiantly at the scientist, refusing to back down.

Bruce plucks off his glasses. “Nice, Steve,” he says. “Real nice. Why don’t you say that in front of the Sousas? I’d like to see which one of them smacks you in that perfect jaw first.”

 _Peggy,_ Steve thinks, _and it’d smart_.

But Bruce isn’t finished. “As it just so happens,” he says, “that ‘cripple’ overpowered Tony, took a swing at you and damn near managed to get himself untied, which is no small task when it’s Nat who bound you. Did it all without a drop of supersoldier serum, too.”

Before Steve can stop himself, the little guy who used to pick fights with much bigger opponents pipes, “Because you’ve got so much room to talk, Dr. Banner.” His sightline’s clear again. Tony’s fogging up the glass with every breath. Then he notices it: the sweat beaded on Bruce’s brow. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I - ”

“You think you’re better than the rest of us, Captain.”

Steve’s starting to get nervous. He hadn’t asked Tony if there was a containment plan if the Hulk showed up. How could he forget? “C’mon, Bruce. Let’s just have a seat, calm down - ”

 _“Don’t you tell me to calm down.”_ And he brings his fist down hard enough to dent the lab table.

*

“I wasn’t going to hulk out,” Bruce insists, though he accepts the washcloth Natasha hands him and uses it to mop his damp brow.

She lifts his other hand, the injured one, by the wrist. “Spread your fingers,” she instructs. Bruce winces. “Can you make a fist?”

He can, but it’s painful. He yanks his hand away, cradling it to his chest. “I wasn’t going to hulk out,” he says again.

At last, Natasha says, “I believe you,” though her gaze settles on Tony and Steve, squabbling on the other side of the glass. “Convince them.” She jerks her chin in the direction of his hand. “You should put some ice on that.”

Bruce flexes his fingers experimentally as the door slides open and Tony saunters in, Steve not far behind. “You know,” Tony drawls, “J.A.R.V.I.S. could have had that X-rayed and set by now.” He examines the dented lab table for a moment, then affixes his dark eyes to Bruce, unblinking.

“Yeah, well, good thing it’s not broken,” Bruce fires back.

Tony’s reply is even. “I forgot the other guy has accelerated healing.”

 _“I told you,”_ Bruce says irritably, “I’m not the other guy.”

It’s Steve, arms tightly folded across his chest, who suggests, “Maybe if everyone just - ”

Tony and Bruce both whip their heads around to glare at him. Steve holds his hands up and falls silent.

Good thing J.A.R.V.I.S. pipes, “Sir, I’ve run the analysis on the wrench from your father’s lab. It’s emitting the most unusual radiation signature.”

Bruce forgets all about his throbbing hand. “No,” he says, pulling off his glasses, “no way. It’s not - never - only - ”

“What?” Natasha demands. “What is it?”

But the data J.A.R.V.I.S. has pulled up is almost too stunning for Bruce to describe. He gestures vaguely. “I’m going to need - something portable - that I can take - ”

For all his faults, Tony at least speaks scientist. “I think I have something that will work,” he says, voice muffled as he plunges headfirst into a cabinet. “Aha!” He hands Bruce a gadget that bears a passing resemblance to a hand-held vacuum.

Natasha arches an eyebrow. “A DustBuster?”

“No, it’s a vita-ray detector,” says Steve, to general astonishment. “What? Dr. Erskine had one. It has the same - ” he waves his fingers back and forth, then nods at Bruce.

“Geiger counter, yeah,” the scientist supplies. “Only this time we’re looking for gamma, not vita, radiation. Right?” Bruce looks to Tony for confirmation.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Tony, waving his hand dismissively in the direction of Howard’s lab. “Off you go.”

Natasha grabs Bruce by the arm. “You’re looking for gamma radiation?” she asks.

“Technically, we already found it,” says Bruce, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Gamma radiation he knows. Now he’s confident he can get the Sousas back to 1949.

“The wrench?” Natasha wants to know.

Bruce nods. “See that?” he says, pointing to a spike on the chart J.A.R.V.I.S. is displaying. “That tells me we’re dealing with a transdimensional element known as ‘Darkforce.’ I’ve only ever read about it. Supposedly it was discovered during nuclear tests during the war.”

Again he starts off toward Howard’s lab, and again he’s pulled back by Natasha. “Darkforce?”

“I didn’t name it,” Bruce points out, shifting uncomfortably.

But Natasha’s grip remains firm. “You really want to go charging into an environment saturated with an element you just admitted you know nothing about?”

“I didn’t say I knew _nothing - ”_

“If you’d like,” says J.A.R.V.I.S., “I can pull up the S.H.I.E.L.D. file on Darkforce.”

And he does.

“Anyone else seeing what I’m seeing?” Tony calls out after a minute.

Then Bruce notices it, too.

_Known also as: Zero Matter. Sample requisitioned by D. Sousa & M. Carter, Strategic Scientific Reserve, 1947. _

*

Daniel’s eyes follow Peggy as she enters the room with the tea tray, which she places in front of him. He still isn’t quite sure what he’s looking for, just knows she’d been crying earlier and trying to hide it from him. She’d also lied about where she went with Pepper. It hadn’t been shopping, but he still isn’t sure he wants to press the issue.

Peggy takes the seat next to him.

“You know,” says Daniel lightly as she fixes his cup with a dash of milk but no sugar, “I’m willing to bet J.A.R.V.I.S. would have brought us tea if we’d asked.”

His wife shoots him a scandalized look. “Don’t tell me you think a disembodied voice can make tea to my standards.”

“I don’t know, Peg,” Daniel says, giving her a squeeze as she settles against his arm, “he made me a pretty good cup of coffee this morning.”

“Oh, he can make coffee?” says Peggy. “Then I stand corrected.” She rolls her eyes. “This, from the man who didn’t know to warm a teapot when I met him.”

“I make good tea now!” Daniel insists. “Even Jarvis thinks so.”

Peggy hums noncommittally, throwing her husband’s recently-discovered confidence in his own tea-making skills in doubt. Though, there must be something about this pot that isn’t to Peggy’s liking because she takes two sips and sets her cup aside with a grimace. “I still wish you’d take your leg off for a bit. We could just as easily be sitting in our room right now.”

The tips of Daniel’s ears light up. “Peg,” he mutters, “we’ve been over this, I’m - ”

“Honestly, Daniel,” Peggy continues, pretending not to hear him, “it’s one thing to push yourself to the limits when we’re on a case and lives are at stake, but here? Now? What exactly are you trying to prove, my darling?”

_I think you know._

Before Daniel can articulate this, someone enters the sitting room in a white hazmat suit.

“What the bloody blue - ” Peggy starts, kneeing Daniel painfully in her haste to stand. “Tony, I demand to know what you’re doing this instant.”

But his only response is to wand over her with what Daniel presumes is the modern equivalent of Erskine’s Vita-Ray Detector, which fortunately doesn’t ping. The thing goes crazy when Tony scans Daniel’s crutch, however. Tony snatches it with one gloved hand and retreats wordlessly.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” says Peggy, and notices him struggling to pull himself up off the couch without his crutch. She pushes him back against the cushions. “Wait here,” she orders.

As if he has a choice.

*

Natasha wraps the ice pack with a paper towel and offers it wordlessly to Bruce. He stares at it for a minute. “Thanks,” he says, “but I don’t really - ” her eyes flicker to the blue-black line of bruises rising along his fifth metacarpal “ - need it,” he finishes lamely, taking the ice pack and placing it over his hand. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” says Natasha, watching out of the corner of her eye as Tony, still clad in a hazmat suit, approaches the lab. She nudges Bruce, who almost falls off his stool. “Didn’t you say that the exposure risk on this level was low?”

Bruce pulls off his glasses. “Not low enough for Tony. He’s apparently worried his heirs will have flippers, or - and I’m quoting here - ‘worse, bad hair.’” He groans before Natasha can. “Uh oh.”

“I don’t like ‘uh oh.’”

“Look at what he’s carrying.” That’s when Natasha sees Tony has Daniel’s crutch. “Is it expecting too much to assume you explained why we needed it?” Bruce asks as Tony enters the lab.

Before he can answer, Natasha hears Peggy on the stairs. She’s yelling, “Anthony Stark, you are going to let me into your lab at once and return my husband’s crutch!”

“You know,” says Tony, voice muffled by the suit, “all this yelling is giving me flashbacks to 1975.”

“Did you steal her husband’s crutch then, too?” Bruce wants to know as Peggy pounds on the glass.

“Poured juice on her carpet.”

“Why do I get the feeling you didn’t just spill your juice box?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was a 20-year-old Bordeaux.”

Natasha crosses the room to manually override the lock on the lab door. As much as the thought of letting Peggy charge Tony appeals to her, Natasha has a vested interest in further limiting the future S.H.I.E.L.D. director’s exposure to gamma radiation. Bruce must have the same thought because he gets in front of Tony as Natasha pins Peggy’s arms.

“Let go of me,” Peggy insists, struggling mightily against Black Widow’s grasp.

“Peggy, Peggy, _Peggy,_ listen to me, OK?” Bruce pleads, narrowly dodging one of her swinging fists. “J.A.R.V.I.S. can fabricate a new crutch for Daniel. I’ll have him measure the old one right now. But that one? It’s emitting high enough levels of gamma radiation I don’t think you want your husband touching it.”

Peggy shoots him a dirty look. “Like he has been all day?” she demands, though she does stop trying to wiggle out of Natasha’s grip.

“Did you scan Daniel?” Bruce asks Tony, who nods. The billionaire is using the respirator on the hazmat suit to breathe heavily in his best Darth Vader impersonation. Bruce turns back to Peggy. “If he didn’t set off the Geiger counter, he probably hasn’t absorbed much. Would you feel better if I went upstairs and checked?”

“Yes,” Peggy says primly after a moment, “it would.” Without Natasha’s arms to pin hers back, Peggy’s rested a hand on her belly. _Oh, well, that’s interesting._ She must feel Natasha’s eyes on it because she removes her hand at once, her cheeks faintly pink.

As Bruce dismisses himself to check on Daniel, Natasha thinks about how certain Peggy’s husband had been she would join them for breakfast. He’d been so surprised when she politely insisted she wasn’t hungry Natasha’s willing to bet Daniel doesn’t know his wife is pregnant yet. Assuming Peggy is, of course. That’s when Natasha remembers Steve’s still in the lab, smartly staying out of the fray for a change.

Well. Can’t have Steve finding out before Daniel. That means Natasha needs to put Peggy at ease. “Tony,” she says briskly, “you look ridiculous.”

There’s a click, then a hiss. “You can’t be too careful,” Tony breathes, “not with the future of Stark Industries on the line.”

It’s J.A.R.V.I.S. who breaks the tension. “Sir, shall I schedule you with Dr. Mayfield to reverse your vasectomy?”

Natasha has to cover her smile as Tony removes the mask. “You know I’m not authorized to make that decision, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he says. “Ask Pepper.”

“Would you like a chair?” Natasha offers Peggy.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Peggy insists, though not a minute earlier she’d been flexing her ankle like she couldn’t wait to get off her feet. “Really, I don’t - oh, there you are.”

And she hustles off to intercept her husband, who’s just come off the freight elevator and leaning heavily on Bruce. “Really, Peg,” he’s saying, “I can - ”

It’s with practiced ease that Peggy slides Daniel’s arm off Bruce’s shoulder and onto her own. Natasha knows better than to render aid, but Steve of course materializes with a stool.

“Just - take it in the spirit in which it was given, OK?” Steve mutters, carding a hand through his blond hair before settling his arms across his chest in his usual defensive pose. Peggy doesn’t say anything, but she does snatch the stool and deposit Daniel on it.

“Thank you,” Daniel mutters, face flushed. He seems to be avoiding eye contact with all of them, including his wife, now resting her hands on his shoulder.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., make sure those measurements get sent to the 3D printer,” says Bruce, picking up the gamma ray detector. “Mind if I - ” he asks, gesturing vaguely with the device.

But the only time the Geiger counter even moves is when Bruce waves it over Daniel’s outstretched right knee. Daniel groans, but he reaches for his pant leg just the same. Bruce stops him.

“It’s very, very low level,” says Bruce, waving the detector over the prosthetic again. It doesn’t ping. “Though, just to be safe, maybe I could stick it in the deionizing chamber tonight once you’ve taken it off for the evening?”

“Yes,” Peggy replies before Daniel can. “I’ll see that you get it, Bruce. Thank you.” She clears her throat. “That’s it, then? We’re both safe?”

“Relatively,” says Bruce, nodding once, twice, three times. “Though, it doesn’t explain the wrench or Daniel’s crutch.”

Natasha watches as Peggy tightens her hold on Daniel ever-so-slightly. “What wrench?” Peggy asks.

Daniel covers Peggy’s hand with his own. “The one Howard asked me to hand him yesterday, Peg,” he says quietly.

“It came through the portal, too?”

Bruce is circling the crutch on the lab table, muttering under his breath about how fascinating this all is. “But why isn’t the Darkforce having the same effect on organic materials?”

 _“Darkforce?”_ Peggy and Daniel repeat in unison.

Bruce pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Right,” he says, more to himself than to the group. “Does the term ‘Zero Matter’ ring any bells?”

Natasha’s looking for any sign, however small, that they know more than they’re letting on. But Daniel could plausibly be going through his mental Rolodex of old cases as Peggy blows out a tiny puff of air. “Oh, honey,” she says, snapping her fingers, “the Isodyne case.”

“She’s lying,” calls Steve.

Peggy looks aghast. “I most certainly am not,” she retorts. “Daniel, it was the Isodyne case, wasn’t it?” She doesn’t give her husband a chance to get a word in edgewise. “We supervised a team of scientists sent in to clean up an experiment with nuclear energy that went badly wrong.”

“It was right after Peg came out to LA,” Daniel corroborates. “Apparently Isodyne had discovered a new element? Peg and I moved it to secure storage at an SSR facility upstate. But that would have been ... two years ago?”

Natasha’s not unconvinced, but she’s also willing to give Steve the benefit of the doubt. “I don’t know, Steve, I believe them.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” says the supersoldier. “Peg hates pet names, particularly honey.”

“Oh, honestly, Steve, it’s been four years. When are you going to accept I might just be a different - ”

“No, he’s right,” says Natasha, slipping off the stool. “Yesterday I only heard you call him ‘my darling’ or ‘my love.’ Hmm. You must use different terms of endearment when you’re trying to sell it.” She tries not to think about how Clint will absently call her “babe” when it’s just the two of them, but never while undercover. When she’s playing his wife, it’s always just “sweetie” or “dear.”

“I think it’d be best if you questioned them separately, Nat,” Steve says evenly, striding up behind her. “I’m not sure you’ll ever get the whole truth from the pair of them.”

Tony snorts. “No surprises there. Of course you’re on Team Separation.”

Natasha doesn’t have time for this. “Tony, Steve, out,” she orders. “ _Now.”_ Once the two Avengers have departed, she asks the Sousas, “Whatever you didn’t tell us yesterday, can you say it in front of Bruce?” She watches Daniel tilt his chin up. Peggy offers the barest of nods. “J.A.R.V.I.S., this stays in the lab, OK?”

“Yes, Agent Romanoff.”

“Start talking,” she commands.

It’s Daniel who speaks first, snaking an arm around his wife’s waist. “We should have told you about Zero Matter,” he says, striking a conciliatory tone. “We knew the SSR had allowed Tony’s father to keep a small sample of it under the terms of a research and development contract. Only he wasn’t following them. When we arrived in Malibu yesterday, we discovered Howard had removed the sample given to Stark Industries from its controlled environment and was conducting experiments with it in his personal lab. I don’t like to speak for Peggy, but in this case, I think it’s safe to say if either ever sees Zero Matter again, it’ll be too soon. Our investigation into what happened at Isodyne almost cost Peggy her life.”

Peggy sighs. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Daniel.”

But Natasha doesn’t think he’s being melodramatic at all. In fact, she wonders if he’s not understating it. “What did you do when you realized Howard was violating the terms of his agreement with the SSR?”

“Took steps to reclaim the sample of Zero Matter, of course,” says Peggy at once. “Only someone didn’t want me to.”

Daniel squirms. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says, “I wanted the Zero Matter back in the hands of the SSR. I just hate the stuff, OK? I didn’t want Peggy handling it. So I told her I planned to call in another agent. We were squabbling with the containment case between us when Tony must have activated the portal on this end.”

“So you both were in contact with the Zero Matter?” Bruce wants to know. Daniel nods. “Kind of a big detail to leave out. Why not say something yesterday?”

“Because,” says Peggy, “it’s not any of Steve’s business that Daniel and I were fighting.”

At the same time, Daniel says, “Maybe I wasn’t ready to trust a Stark with Zero Matter so soon.”

They both stare at each other. “You were worried about Tony,” Peggy says flatly.

“Yeah, well, you were worried about Steve,” mutters Daniel.

“And I’m worried about getting the two of you home,” Bruce jumps in. “What can you tell me about the containment case? What was it made of? How did it seal? Do you know who designed it? I might be able to look them up in old S.H.I.E.L.D. - ”

Natasha slips out of Tony’s lab and touches her ear. “Clint, we’re going to need a sample of Darkforce, sometimes called Zero Matter. I’m sure that’s what Fury has you searching Camp Lehigh for.” No answer, but that’s not unusual. “Be careful,” says Natasha, and she disconnects the line.

*

**_Clint’s least favorite airport: fucking Newark_ **

Clint sizes up every male passenger who checks a bag. Too tall. Too thin. Too punk rock. He finally spies a businessman who looks to be about his height and build and waits for the man to tip the skycap. That’s Clint’s cue to saddle up to the orange cones. He waits for the TSA agent to turn his back.

_You’ve got this. You’ve stolen a nuclear bomb before. A suitcase should be easy._

It isn’t, not with broken ribs and a bullet wound, but somehow Clint manages to heave the bag off the conveyer belt. The corners of his vision darken. _You’ve been hurt worse. Just ... get to Malibu. Nat’ll patch you up when you get there._

He somehow manages to drag himself - and the suitcase - into the bathroom without attracting too much attention. Clint had done a decently good job picking his mark. The clothes are all his size. He tears the two ugliest dress shirts into strips, which he uses to bind his black, blue and bleeding torso.

 _Just a flesh wound,_ he tells himself. _Just a -_

Clint’s stomach gives an unpleasant lurch. He dresses quickly. Well, as quickly as he can. He splashes his face with water until he only looks haggard, not haggard and _bleeding._

He heads to the ticket counter.

_— When’s the next flight to LAX?_

_— There’s one leaving in 40 minutes. If you want, I can -_

_— What was that? I didn’t catch -_

_— sold out._

_— Could you look at me when you talk?_ Clint forces his hands to move, so he’s signing as he speaks. _I’m deaf._

_— Oh my goodness, sir, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. I can call a sign language interpreter if -_

_— I can read lips,_ says Clint, _but you have to look at me._ He’s trying to keep his tone neutral despite his frustration. Not that he can hear anything. _You said there’s a flight in 40 minutes?_

 _— Even if you could get through -_ he misses a word - _the flight’s full._

Security. Even if he could get through security, the flight’s full.

_— Has everyone checked in? It’s an emergency. I need to get to Los Angeles. Tonight._

_— sorry, not possible - maybe tomorrow -_

_— Please._ He flattens his right hand to his chest, circles left, down, right and back up. _Please help me._

Left, down, right, back up. Clint’s not sure what will happen if he can’t get to the Avengers, if he can’t get to Natasha. Left, down, right, back up.

_— OK, OK. Let me see what I can do._

Clint covers his lips with the fingers of his left hand and drops his palm toward the gate agent. Every movement tears through his chest, aggravates his side. _Speak, Clint. You have to speak. She doesn’t know what you’re saying._

_Nat’ll know._

The words come, though he can’t hear them.

_— Thank you._

_— Don’t thank me yet._

It’s so quiet.

*

 **Back at** ~~**the ranch** ~~ **Tony’s mansion**

“It looks rather flimsy if you ask me,” says Peggy uncertainly as Bruce hands Daniel the crutch that the strange machine in Tony’s workshop has been fabricating for the last hour. It looks nothing like the one it’s supposed to replace.

It takes Daniel a second to learn how to grip the new crutch, but once he does, he’s swinging forward and making his wife’s heart skip a beat. “Feels solid.”

“It’s more ergonomic,” Bruce mutters out of the corner of his mouth to Peggy as Daniel tests the new crutch. “It should - ”

“Ergonomic?” Peggy repeats. She’s not familiar with the word.

Bruce flushes. “Right, OK. Ergonomics - ” he breaks off, and nods at Daniel, now halfway across the room. “Does he have back pain, shoulder pain?” Peggy averts her eyes. “This design should help.” Bruce pauses, like there’s something he wants to tell her but knows he shouldn’t. “Yeah, I can’t not send back some sketches for Howard. If he keeps overcompensating like he has been, it’s going to do permanent damage to his spine.”

Peggy swallows, forcing a smile as her husband makes his way back around to them. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten our conversation about overdoing it,” she scolds, though she allows him to kiss her on the lips.

“Peg’s always looking out for me,” Daniel tells Bruce, tapping the crutch. “And thanks. Might be better than the one I started with.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Bruce, lifting his eyebrows.

“No, Bruce, truly,” says Peggy. “Thank - ”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish before Tony’s bouncing into the lab, clutching a rocks glass and reminding her so much of his father. “Oh good,” he says, eyes raking Daniel’s new crutch, “you can walk again.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Now if you’ll just walk yourself out of - ”

“Tony,” Bruce says warningly.

“I’m kidding,” says Tony. He has the same unnerving tendency not to blink as his father. “There’s pizza upstairs. J.A.R.V.I.S. ordered enough for a small army. Or, you know, Captain America.”

It’s Bruce who takes it upon himself to steer Daniel away from the stairs and toward the freight elevator. Peggy’s not sure what makes her hang back, other than she feels the need to explain herself. “I hope there aren’t any hard - ”

Tony waves his hand. “Nat says the two of you got into it with my old man,” he says, tilting his head back and draining his glass. “Believe me, that’s not something you have to explain.”

Peggy thinks she hears her husband ask Bruce if they should wait for her and Tony. “Nah,” says the scientist, “they probably took the stairs.” And that’s definitely the sound of the elevator slowly rising.

“Better pick up the pace,” says Tony, though he makes no effort to move.

Neither does Peggy. “Why is that?”

“Because,” says Tony, and he fidgets, and Peggy knows that fidget because she’s seen Howard do it so many times, start to raise a glass to his lips that’s already empty, “the captain isn’t overly fond of your husband, Mrs. Sousa.”

“I assure you, Mr. Stark, Daniel can handle himself.”

Tony pulls a face. “He proved that yesterday,” he grumbles. “My shins might never be the same. Also, it’s Tony.” And though the stairs are much closer, he beckons her to follow him around the corner to the elevator.

She stops short when she sees the Sequoia Cream Buick Super. “Howard’s leisure car!” Peggy exclaims. Before she can stop herself, she’s peering through the windows. “He held onto it.”

“No,” says Tony, slipping between Peggy and the convertible, “he sold it in 1950.” He opens the door for her. “I picked it up at an auction about five years ago.”

“Does the champagne - ” Peggy flips the switch and out pops a vintage bottle of Dom Perignon, which Tony plucks from the compartment. “Did you know when you bought it,” she asks, “it was your father’s?”

“How could I not,” Tony says darkly, “when they were advertising it as ‘Howard Stark’s Shaggin’ Wagon?’”

The other Avengers have decamped to the same sitting room where she and Daniel had eaten dinner the night before and taken tea that afternoon, pizza boxes open on every surface. Tony carries the champagne over to the bar while Peggy weighs her options. There’s an empty seat on the sofa next to her husband, but it’ll be a tight squeeze with Natasha and Bruce occupying the other end.

Then Steve makes the decision for her when he starts to get up from the bar. She had no doubt he offers his seat to her out of habit, but she still picks the spot next to Daniel. Poor Bruce ends up perched on the arm of the couch as he and Natasha scoot down to make room for her.

“I’m trying to imagine an America without pizza,” Bruce is saying. “You’re telling me in 1949 Los Angeles, you really can’t order up a couple of pies for delivery?”

“Peg, they don’t believe me,” Daniel says, arm curling around her. “Tell them pizza was barely a thing in New York until the GIs started coming back from Italy.”

Peggy has to remind herself how many times they’ve sat like this with the Jarvises and Howard, almost in this exact spot, listening to Benny Goodman and sipping whiskey. She’d never cared if Daniel put his arm around her then. “It’s true,” she confirms.

Her husband’s lips graze her temple. “Come on, eat something,” he says quietly. “You skipped breakfast, you barely touched lunch - ”

Peggy, heart pounding, reaches for the nearest box. Natasha knocks her hand away. “Oh, you don’t want that pizza,” she says. “That pizza is _all_ Bruce.”

“Is there something - ”

There’s a pop as Tony uncorks the champagne. “The cheese,” he interrupts, “it’s cashew.”

Peggy’s confused. “How can cheese be - ”

“Don’t look at me,” her husband says, “they also apparently make bacon from turkeys.”

“You’re welcome to try a slice,” Bruce offers, but Peggy demurs politely. She reaches for a slice of cheese instead and prays it’ll stay down.

The first bite is heavenly. “Oh, this is good!” she exclaims.

Daniel chuckles as he reaches for a napkin. “You’ve got a little - right - _there,”_ he says, helping her wipe her cheek. Peggy blushes furiously.

Steve clears his throat. “So, Sousa,” he says, and the room gets very quiet, “I know you were in Belgium. You ever eat pizza in Italy?”

“Uh,” says Daniel, clearly confused as to why Steve is talking to him, “no. Saw a lot of Northern France, though. What about you? Did the Howling Commandos hit any HYDRA bases in Italy?”

“Never made it to the boot myself,” Steve says, “though Dum Dum would always want to detour through Milan, stop in and see this girl - ”

Daniel twists in his seat. “You mean Fiora?”

“You know her?” says Steve. He sounds surprised. Then he frowns. “You know Dum Dum?”

When Daniel hesitates, it’s Peggy who says, “Dum Dum brought Fiora to our wedding.”

“Oh,” says Steve, though he recovers quickly. “They serious?”

 _As serious as Dum Dum is about anything,_ Peggy thinks, but she lets her husband respond. At the other end of the couch, Bruce and Natasha have resumed their conversation. That’s when Tony materializes and presses a rocks glass in her hand. “What’s this?” she asks. She sniffs it - some sort of Scotch, no doubt expensive if Tony’s tastes are anything like Howard’s - but her stomach lurches. “Oh, I’m all right.”

Tony won’t take no for an answer. “It’s a 25-year Macallan Sherry Oak. It costs $1,000 a bottle. Drink it.” Peggy’s mouth falls open, but Tony’s already moved on. “Vodka, up,” he says, handing Natasha a stemmed glass, “and a daiquiri for Bruce.”

“I said I’d have whatever Nat’s drinking.”

“You can’t handle what Nat’s drinking,” says Tony, lifting the Dom Perignon. “To Howard Stark.”

And he drinks straight from the bottle.

Daniel clinks his glass against Peggy’s and mutters, “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” He takes a swig and grimaces. He’s never been much of a whisky drinker.

Peggy’s trying to talk herself into a small sip when she hears Pepper yell, “Tony? Are you in - ” her heels click across the marble, and she appears in the doorway _“ - Tony.”_ She gestures in a way Peggy understands to mean the bottle. “We talked about this.”

“Oh?” says Tony, holding out the champagne. “You want some?”

Pepper’s already heading for the kitchen. “Next time,” she calls over her shoulder, “use a glass.”

Peggy pats her husband’s good knee. “Will you be all right? I wanted to thank Pepper for taking me shopping earlier.”

“Go on,” says Daniel, “Cap and I can trade war stories.”

Peggy carries her whisky with her to the kitchen, where Pepper’s rummaging through the fridge. “I wanted to thank you,” she says.

Pepper whirls around and gasps, dropping the celery stick she’s been gnawing on. “Peggy!” she says, snatching the rocks glass away and flinging it into the sink.

“Oh!” says Peggy as the amber liquid swirls down the drain. “But that was from a thousand - ”

“The bottles Tony buys start at $1,000,” Pepper interrupts. “Please tell me that’s all you’ve had to drink.”

“Thanks to you,” Peggy says, crossing her arms, “I didn’t even get to take a sip.”

Pepper’s touch is light, but her voice is firm. “Peggy, you can’t drink while you’re pregnant.”

“Isn’t that temperance myth?”

“No drinking, no smoking, no caffeine,” says Pepper, ticking each off on a finger. “OK?”

“What?” Peggy demands. “I’m not allowed caffeine? Says who?”

“Sixty years of medical research,” Pepper says without missing a beat. “You’re going to have to trust me on this, Peggy. You can have one cup of coffee or tea a day, but that’s it.”

“One cup,” Peggy repeats, still skeptical. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Pepper confirms. “You’re due in December?” It’s only when her eyes dart down that Peggy realizes she’s placed her hand on her belly again. She knows Natasha caught her doing the same thing earlier in Tony’s lab.

Peggy blushes. “Sorry,” she mutters, hand sliding off the slight swell. Now she’s wondering how she managed to ignore her expanding waistline for this long. Why, she busted the zipper on her favorite skirt and blamed it on Jarvis’ cooking. “I’m starting to think I won’t be able to hide it from Daniel for very long.”

“How many weeks?”

“Twelve.”

“Probably not, no.” There’s a peal of raucous laughter from the sitting room. “And you’re sure I can’t convince you to tell him?”

Peggy shakes her head. “Pepper, we’ve been over this.”

“Most miscarriages happen in the first trimester.”

“Most pregnancies don’t involve time travel.”

“That is - an excellent point,” says Pepper, and she clears her throat. “Daniel!”

“Hi, Pepper,” he says, gently touching his wife’s elbow. “I’m bushed,” he tells Peggy. “Thought I might turn in.”

Peggy finds herself wondering if the laughter was at her husband’s expense. Lightly, she asks, “So soon?”

Daniel squeezes her hip. “Someone keeps telling me to take it easy. Evening, Pepper.”

There’s a small smile on Pepper’s face. “I think you ought to follow your husband,” she says.

“I think I will,” Peggy says primly. “Good night, Pepper.”

“Good night, Peggy.”

*

Daniel grips the towel bar, white-knuckled and wincing, as Peggy unwinds the bandages from around his stump. He glances over his shoulder to where she’s seated on the edge of the tub. “You don’t have to,” he says quietly.

“Nonsense,” comes his wife’s reply. “You’d never be able to do a proper job, and besides - ” he doesn’t have to see her face to know Peggy’s smirking “ - I rather like the view.”

And she gives his butt a little smack. It’s hardly forceful, seeing as he’s precariously balanced on one leg, but it’s certainly suggestive, and it leaves Daniel feeling hot under the collar. There isn’t anything sexy about getting stripped down to your skivvies so your wife can tend to the festering sores on your leg. He grimaces as she peels away the last layer of gauze.

“Hand me that washcloth, my love,” says Peggy, steadying him as he does. “The good news is I don’t think it’s gotten any worse. Let’s be sure to bandage it tomorrow before you don your leg.”

Daniel doesn’t respond. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth as Peggy dabs on the antiseptic.

“What were you boys laughing about?” she wants to know, rewrapping his stump with practiced ease. It’s not the first time she’s had to mop him up when he’s overdone it.

He always swears it’ll be the last. “Bastogne,” he says after a minute.

Peggy freezes, and Daniel knows what she’s thinking: he hardly talks about Bastogne, let alone jokes about what happened there. “Bastogne,” she repeats, and she resumes her ministrations. “Let me guess. You told the Avengers about the doctor who told you he’d have to cut off both your arms before realizing he had some other poor soldier’s chart and had already operated on you?”

He’d been so freaked out he’d made one of the nurses write, _“This arm’s healthy!”_ and _“So’s this one!”_ on him before he’d go back to sleep. He’d woken up smudged with ink, but he also wasn’t down any more limbs. “How do you end up calling yourself the Avengers?”

“The same way Steve’s men came to be called the Howling Commandos, I expect,” says Peggy, and she pats the bandages she just finished securing. “There you are, Chief Sousa.”

“Peg, we need to talk.” Daniel hesitates. “It’s about Steve.”

His wife sighs. “We’ve been over this, Daniel. I married - ”

“No, Peg,” he interrupts, and he lowers himself to the nearest surface, which happens to be the closed toilet seat. Of all the places to have this conversation. Then again, he should have told her three years ago when he’d caught her rifling through the box of Steve’s effects that Captain America had saved him. He’d wish for a time machine if that weren’t why they were in this whole mess in the first place. He reaches for his wife’s hand. “Listen, I know - ”

“He made a joke at your expense, didn’t he? _Ooh,”_ says Peggy, making a fist, “that makes me so mad. I simply am going to have to - ”

“Peggy!” Daniel’s thumbs dig into her palm, forcing her fingers to uncurl. “Steve wasn’t being a jerk.” He swallows hard. “He actually apologized - ”

“As he bloody well should have.”

“ - for leaving all of us to defend Bastogne,” Daniel finishes, and he watches Peggy’s mouth fall open as the pieces slide into place.

“You were one of the men he rescued,” she says slowly. “Your scouting team, you were caught behind the HYDRA blockade, weren’t you?” He nods. “Daniel, why didn’t you tell me?”

Daniel wants to tell her there’s no handbook for telling the woman you’ve fallen head over heels in love with that her old beau saved your life once, but all he can do is shake his head. “Peg, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

“But my love, what ever are you apologizing for?” Peggy asks, lifting his chin. “Your actions that day were every bit as heroic as Steve’s. You volunteered to stand and fight, and when you were injured - ” her hand drops to what’s left of his right leg “ - I know you twice gave up your place in the evac line so your men would have a better chance of surviving their injuries.”

“Jessop was waiting for a letter from his wife to find out whether they’d had a boy or girl, and McIntyre had twins at home,” Daniel says bitterly. “Fat lot of good it did. Jessop didn’t make it off the table, and McIntyre died of infection a week later.”

He’s guessing that part didn’t make it into his commendation letter because Peggy gasps, “Oh, Daniel.” He closes his eyes as she leans in to rest her forehead against his. “Words can’t begin to express how glad I am you made it home.”

Daniel’s still terrified of losing her, but for the moment, Peggy feels solid and real in his arms. “I love you,” he tells her. “You were right when you told me I was one of the lucky ones.”

For a moment, he thinks she’s forgotten what she told him many moons ago in a storage closet in the New York office. But then she kisses him and says, “Not as lucky as me, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, just wow. The outpouring of love and support on chapter one was just amazing. I can’t thank you enough for your kind words. They were certainly motivation to keep me working hard on this update!
> 
> As such, I’m sure you’ll all be heartbroken to hear I’ve decided I need four chapters to tell this story. I would LOVE to have this fic done before “Captain America: Civil War” comes out in May, but I’m not quite sure that’s realistic. I’m also planning to switch gears for the next week or so to work on my gift for the Peggysous exchange. (Seriously, guys, believe me when I say I got a great prompt.) So look for that as well!
> 
> Thanks as always to my tireless betas, [frommybookbook](http://frommybookbook.tumblr.com) and [lazaefair](http://lazaefair.tumblr.com). Without them, Tony’s dialogue wouldn’t be half as funny. And thanks this time, too, to [amara-lorena](http://amara-lorena.tumblr.com), who entertained my Agent Carter ramblings at all hours. Say hi to me anytime [on Tumblr](http://em2mb.tumblr.com).


	3. Chapter 3

Different night, different nightmare. Afghanistan this time. Bright lights and panicked screams, an alarm cranked up to 11.

“Tony! Tony! Tony!”

There’s a clatter, then a  _ crash _ as the water glass he’d carried to bed shatters into a million pieces. It’s his first clue that something’s really wrong: his eyes are open, so why isn’t he waking up?

Because he never went to sleep.

Pepper’s still saying his name, over and over again, until it’s just a word, just a sound. “Sir,” says J.A.R.V.I.S., “there’s an intruder on the south lawn.”

“Send the suit,” Tony gasps. “J.A.R.V.I.S., for the love of God, send - ”

Iron Man bursts through the door of the master suite. “I already did, sir.”

Tony steps into his armor. Instead of telling Pepper to stay put, he commands, “Seal the room, J.A.R.V.I.S. Do not let anyone in. Do you understand me? Do not let anyone - ”

“Tony!” Pepper bursts. “You can’t just - ”

But Tony can, and he does. He jets out of their room at top speed, doors clanging shut behind him.  _ You have to protect Pepper. _

Stark mansion is lit up like a Christmas tree. Every speaker in the house blasts the same, shrill warning: “Intruder! South lawn. Intruder! South lawn.” Tony rockets down the hallway, picking up speed as he approaches the windows.

“Sir, I can prepare a flight plan that doesn’t involve crashing into your own - ”

Too late. Tony blasts right on through the wall of windows, glass raining down in all directions.

“ - windows,” J.A.R.V.I.S. finishes lamely. He brings up the south lawn surveillance feed. There’s a figure huddled just inside the fence. Suddenly, Clint’s face pops onto the heads-up display. “A biometric scan indicates the intruder is Agent Barton.”

“Agent - ” Tony starts, landing on the dewy grass. He prods Clint experimentally with a steel toe, but Hawkeye doesn’t stir. Tony plunges two fingers beneath Clint’s jacket collar. “Vitals,” Tony commands. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Clint wear a shirt with sleeves before.

“Agent Barton’s BP is 102/88, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replies.

Tony does some quick calculations. “If the difference is less than 25 percent of systolic blood pressure,” he mutters, “then pulse pressure is - ”

“Narrow, sir,” supplies J.A.R.V.I.S. “A narrow pulse could indicate decreasing cardiac output and increasing peripheral vascular resistance.”

Translation: Clint’s already bled through his undershirt, shirt and sport coat. 

Tony scoops Clint into his metal arms and flies toward the house.

*

“Peggy - ” her husband’s nudging her “ - wake up, something’s the matter, there’s - ”

At some point in the intervening decades, the security system at Stark mansion must’ve gotten an overhaul because flashing red lights and a shrill siren have replaced Mr. Jarvis’ stern warning to leave the premises. Peggy reaches instinctively for her gun, only to remember she left her sidearm back in 1949. “Daniel, where’s your - ”

“Intruder!” J.A.R.V.I.S interrupts. “South lawn. Intruder! South lawn.”

“In the deionization chamber,” Daniel replies grimly, “along with my leg.” He scoots to the edge of the bed, then pulls up on his crutch. “We better get down to Tony’s lab.” He offers Peggy his hand, which she doesn’t take for fear of toppling him. She pretends not to see his hurt look as she slides on some slippers.

“Excellent idea, Chief Sousa,” says J.A.R.V.I.S. “The rest of the team is assembling now.”

Peggy still thinks the crutch Bruce fabricated for Daniel looks flimsy. “Careful, darling,” she can’t help but caution as she holds the door open for him.

“Peg,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, “I can get by just fine without my leg. I do it all the time at home.”

She doesn’t mean to snap at him. “But we aren’t at home, Daniel,” she says through gritted teeth, attempting to steer him toward the elevator.

“So sorry, Director Carter,” pipes J.A.R.V.I.S., “but Mr. Stark’s laboratory may only be accessed by stair during perimeter breaches.”

“My husband,” Peggy fumes, “can’t exactly - ”

“Peggy,” Daniel breaks in, before she can lose her temper at a disembodied voice, “I can manage. It’s - ”

But it isn’t fine. There’s an intruder somewhere on the property, and they’re totally defenseless. She holds tight to Daniel’s bicep as they clamber down the stairs. It’s all she can do to keep from tearing up. What was wrong with her? It’s not like they’ve never been roused in the middle of the night for an emergency before.

_ Yes, but that was different,  _ Peggy thinks.  _ You had your gun. Daniel had his prosthesis. You weren’t pregnant. _

Well. That would be what’s wrong with her.

“Coming through!” 

Daniel’s full weight lands on Peggy as Tony blasts by in that infernal suit of armor, carrying an unconscious man. Her husband drops an expletive. “He could have killed you,” Daniel says furiously as he picks himself off his wife. “You OK? Did I hurt you?”

Peggy swallows the lump in her throat. “Just fine, my love,” she says, though she’s shaken enough to allow him to help her to her feet. It could, of course, end badly, but it doesn’t. Daniel’s upper body strength more than makes up for his precarious balance. The glass door slides open, though it isn’t clear who’s granted them access because the Avengers are all preoccupied with the new arrival, now lying on one of the metal lab tables. “Is that him? The intruder?”

“Yes, Director Carter,” says J.A.R.V.I.S., “it is indeed.”

Natasha’s eyes flash. “I’d hardly call Agent Barton an intruder,” she says, carefully rolling his head to one side. At first glance, she appears to be checking him for injuries, but Peggy recognizes that defensive tone, that careful touch.

Tony peers out of the Iron Man suit. “What,” he drawls, circling the table, “makes you so sure it’s really Agent Barton in there?” Before he can flick the agent’s forehead, Natasha grabs Tony by his metal wrist. Her other hand reaches into the man’s pocket. Tony wiggles his eyebrows. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not the first time you’ve - ”

Natasha shuts Tony up with a glare, flipping open the man’s wallet. “It’s Clint,” she declares.

Steve takes a step forward. Until now, he’d been hanging back, arms crossed. “Yes,” he says, “but Barton’s been compromised before.”

Even Bruce stops snipping away Clint’s bloody shirt.

“Compromised?” Peggy says sharply. “What do you mean - ”

“Brainwashed,” Tony supplies, not helpfully. “Can someone remind me how many people died on the helicarrier? Anyone? Nat? How many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents did Clint - ”

Clint’s wallet bounces off the chest of the Iron Man suit. “It’s him,” says Natasha. “The identity he’s assumed, it’s not a S.H.I.E.L.D. alias. He only ever uses that name with me.”

Tony bends down to pick up the wallet. “John Smith? Really?”

Natasha smooths Clint’s hair, and Peggy recognizes that gesture, too.  _ Here’s a woman trying to reconcile her personal and professional life.  _ “Do you trust me?” Natasha asks. 

“Yes,” says Bruce at the same time Tony and Steve say, “No.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow. “Listen,” she snaps, “we can argue about whether it’s really Agent Barton, or we can check to make sure the perimeter’s secure. Which would you prefer?”

“A sweep of the grounds?” says Peggy. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Trouble is, Steve’s just as quick to volunteer. “I’ll do it.”

They stare at each other.

“Peggy,” Daniel says uncertainly, “I’m not sure - ”

But her husband should know she’s not about to back down. “It’s a patrol, Daniel,” Peggy says as Natasha hands off one of her pistols. “I think I can handle it.”

“It’s striker-fired,” Natasha explains, “so no external safety. Pulling the trigger increases tension on the firing pin. You have to fully depress - ”

“ - the trigger to fire, got it,” says Peggy. She kisses Daniel’s cheek and follows Steve out of Tony’s lab. 

Steve, who’s carrying his vibranium shield, but isn’t wearing shoes. Peggy snorts.

“What’s so funny?” Steve asks, sounding a little hurt.

“It’s just, you’re barefoot.”

“So? I was trying to get down to Tony’s lab.”

Peggy stops short. “I only meant - do you not remember running out of the tent barefoot in Beaufort?”

“I remember,” Steve says. “I’m surprised you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peggy demands.

Steve doesn’t answer, but he does hold the door open for her.

Once they’re out on the grounds, though, some of the tension between them fades. Peggy moves automatically to cover Steve’s left flank. They’re a hundred yards from Stark mansion when she realizes it’s not her usual position, at least not anymore. These days, she covers Daniel’s right.

There’s a rustle in the bushes. 

Before Peggy can even take aim, Steve’s stepped in front of her and flung his red, white and blue shield into Tony’s shrubbery. The vibranium disk ricochets off the low garden wall. Steve plucks it out of the air and ducks behind it, shielding them both.

Out darts a very scared raccoon.

“What are you  _ doing?”  _ Peggy admonishes. “Since when do you shoot first and ask questions - ” She breaks off.  _ Since always. _ “This isn’t the front, Steve,” she reminds him. “We aren’t at war.”

“See, Peg, that’s where you’re wrong,” he says evenly. “Because while the war might’ve ended for you, it hasn’t for me. I went from fighting Nazis in Germany to Chitauri aliens in New York.”

Peggy can’t take it anymore. “Stop it,” she commands.

“Stop what?”

“Acting like you’re the only one who hurt after that plane went down!” she snaps. “Of course I remember Beaufort. I remember patrolling with you in a foot of snow and sneaking kisses when we thought Colonel Phillips wasn’t looking. I remember Beaufort and Le Havre and Verdun. I spent a month of Saturdays at the Stork Club waiting for you. You’d had so many close calls, and I refused to believe you were really gone. I mourned for you, Steve. I took the very last vial of your blood and threw it off the Brooklyn Bridge rather than turn it over to the SSR to experiment on. But I had to let you go, Steve. Wishing you home wasn’t doing me a damn bit - ”

“You spent a month of Saturdays at the Stork Club?” Steve interrupts. “Peggy, you’ve had four years to move on. I haven’t even been out of the ice four months.” He’s shaking his head. “The last time I saw you, you would’ve torn a strip off me for trying to protect you. I feel like I don’t - ” his voice cracks “ - know you anymore.”

Peggy softens. “Oh, Steve,” she says with a sigh, laying her hand on his elbow. “Of course I’ve changed. The war ended.”  _ And I lost you. _ She closes her eyes. “It took me a long time to move on. But eventually I did. I met Daniel, and I saw in him so many of the qualities that made me fall in love with you.” Her hand slides off his arm.

“Tell me about him,” Steve urges.

It’s right there on the tip of her tongue, how Daniel had been a reconnaissance scout, how he was recruited to work for the SSR after the war, how they’d both been outcasts in the New York office. But instead Peggy says, “He knows just how I take my tea. He’ll cover me with a blanket when I fall asleep on the couch, then tease me when I come to bed. I’ve completely taken over our closet, yet he never says a word when a new package from Howard’s seamstress arrives. He doesn’t like my cooking - ”

“You hate to cook,” Steve interjects.

“ - which works out, because either he cooks or grabs takeaway on his way home.” Peggy takes a deep breath. “Daniel is patient, kind and fair. He’s my fiercest advocate, but where another man might try to stand in front of me, he’s happy to stand at my side. He might know me better than I know myself. He’s taught me I don’t have to do it alone. I feel cherished every day that I’m with him.”

“Must be nice.”

He takes off across the dewy lawn, forcing Peggy to jog after him. “Steve, I’m not telling you all this to hurt you. I just need you to - ”

She almost collides with his broad chest. Steve steadies her. “I get it,” he says glumly. “You’re happy. He makes you happy.”

“Steve - ”

But he isn’t finished. “Tony can be a jerk, but you don’t need to worry, Peg. He’ll figure out a way to send you back. You’ll get to spend your life with Daniel.”

Peggy thinks about the flickering images on the ultrasound that morning, the tiny baby she’s so scared to tell her husband about, and hopes Steve is right. “Steve - ”

“Let’s finish the patrol,” he says roughly.

*

“Nice shirt.”

There’s an edge to Tony’s voice that makes Bruce stop rummaging around for supplies to treat Clint’s hours-old gunshot wound. Clad only in the boxers he’d been sleeping in, Bruce tucks his hands self-consciously under his armpits. “It’s not like I was expecting to - ”

But then he follows Tony’s gaze to Natasha and realizes the insult wasn’t directed at him. She’s wearing a ragged New York School for the Deaf t-shirt. It occurs to Bruce the shirt must’ve once belonged to Clint.

“We’re partners,” Natasha says coolly. 

“Partners,” Tony repeats. He drums his fingers on the metal lab table. “That doesn’t really clear things up for me. Are you dating? Are you robbing a bank? Do you run a legal firm? Are you the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies and are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit?”

Bruce doubts “dating” is the right word for it, but there’s intimacy in the way Natasha has Clint’s head cradled in her hands. He turns, before anyone notices his furious blush, and nearly knocks down Daniel.

“Sorry, sorry,” says Bruce, steadying Daniel, who in his non-crutch hand is inexplicably holding the rolls of Kerlix gauze that had evaded the scientist earlier. Bruce frowns. “What’re you - ”

“You were muttering about not being able to find the gauze,” says Daniel with a shrug. “You want me to - ” He jerks a thumb in Clint’s direction. 

“That won’t be necessary,” Bruce says quickly, snatching the bandages from Daniel. “I can take care of it. You should - ”

“Sit down?”

“That’s not - ” Bruce shakes his head. That’s exactly what he meant.

“C’mon, Bruce,” Daniel says quietly. “It’s driving me crazy just sitting here while Peggy’s out with Steve. Let me do something.”

Finally, Bruce nods toward the sink. “Wash up, grab some gloves.”

“Really?” says Tony when he realizes why Daniel’s pulling up a stool. “So what, we’re just letting anyone practice medicine now?”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tony, we’ve been over this. I’m not - ”

“ - an M.D., right,” says Tony, “but you’re certainly more qualified than - ”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Natasha cuts in.

Daniel quirks an eyebrow. “You know how many times I’ve had to patch up Peg?” He keeps his tone light, almost joking, but there’s something very deliberate about the snap of his gloves, like it’s not the first bullet wound he’s had to clean, nor is he under any illusion it’ll be the last. Bruce sees one benefit in Daniel’s grim determination: it seems to reassure Natasha. 

“Tony,” the scientist suggests, swallowing the lump that rises in his throat when Natasha cards her fingers through Clint’s hair, “maybe you could fly over the grounds one more time? Just to, you know, be sure - ”

“Be sure of what?”

“Tony,” Bruce says wearily, “just ... go.”

The billionaire’s nose wrinkles. “OK,” he says, “but only because I hate the smell of antiseptic.” His faceplate snaps down, and he soars off.

That just leaves Natasha. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to step out in the hall for a few minutes,” Bruce says, massaging his temple.

“Why?”

Bruce hesitates.

Daniel doesn’t. “Because in order to remove the bullet, we have to find it. Right, Dr. Banner?”

“Y-yes,” Bruce stammers.

“I’ll go find him some clothes,” Natasha says, gently lowering Clint’s head to the table, and she’s gone.

Daniel helps Bruce roll Clint onto his side. “Let me guess, hospital’s not an option?”

Bruce shakes his head. “This happened hours ago. Must not’ve been, no.” He reaches for a pair of forceps.

“They’re together?”

Bruce doesn’t look up. “They’re partners.”  _ Whatever that means. _

“You didn’t know.”

It’s not a question, but at the same time Bruce supposes Daniel could’ve outright called him on his little crush on Natasha. “No, I didn’t.” Bruce bites his lip. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Fire away,” says Daniel, and he cringes as Bruce peels back another layer of Clint’s skin. “Or, you know, something a little more tactful.”

“How’d you find a woman who could see past your - ” Bruce’s eyes sweep down to Daniel’s short right leg “ - disability? Because Peggy, she seems like - ” the forceps close around the bullet “ - the real deal.”

The slug drops into the metal pan with a clatter. Daniel doesn’t have to be told to start handing Bruce gauze.

Then again, Daniel’s well aware of how much damage one bullet can do. “Peg’s amazing,” he says, once Clint’s bleeding is back under control.

“It bothers you more than it does her, doesn’t it?”

Daniel nods once, twice. “She’s always telling me not to be self-conscious - ” he shrugs “ - but it’s hard when she used to date Captain America.” His tongue flickers over his lips. “This have anything to do with the green rage monster you turn into sometimes?”

“There you go with the green again,” Bruce quips. That’s when he realizes just how much blood he’s wearing. His stomach lurches. Clint’s a friend. Or at least he could be. “Hey, uh, you got this?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer because he can’t get the soiled gloves off fast enough. At the sink, Bruce scrubs and scrubs, until his skin feels raw and the last swirl of pink disappears down the drain.

He turns the faucet off.

“You OK?” Daniel calls.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m - ” Bruce lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah, no, I’m not. I’m not a spy or a soldier. I’m a scientist. Not a doctor. I don’t - how do you - you said you’ve done this for your wife? More than once? How - ”

“You do it because it beats the alternative, watching your soldier or your agent or your friend or your wife bleed out,” Daniel interrupts. “It’s worse when it’s Peg, but I knew who I was marrying.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Doesn’t mean I like it. No one likes it. If you like it, you should probably get your head checked. Now, hand me that tape, will you?”

Bruce hands Daniel the tape. 

*

Pepper is going to  _ kill _ Tony. She watches as Iron Man streaks across the night sky for a second time and hops off their bed to try to get his attention.

“Tony!” she hollers, pounding on the window. “This isn’t funny! J.A.R.V.I.S., let me out. I demand you let me out this instant.”

“Unfortunately, Ms. Potts, I cannot,” the robot replies. “Only Mr. Stark can override the security parameters.”

“Oh yeah? Well, tell Mr. Stark - ” Pepper bangs her fist against the glass one more time for good measure “ - he’d better let me out if he ever wants to be let back in.” Irritably, she drops onto the bed.

“I’ll be sure to pass that along.”

_ “Oooh,”  _ says Pepper, crossing her legs and resting her chin atop her knuckles, “he just makes me so angry sometimes.”

“Mr. Stark requests to know where, exactly, he will not be allowed back in.”

There’s no one to glare at, but Pepper glares anyway. “Just tell me what to do, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” she begs. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“Mr. Stark, you mean?”

“I just wish he’d talk about what happened in New York,” Pepper continues desperately. “To me, to someone. I’d make an appointment with a therapist if I thought he’d actually go.”

“What was that, Ms. Potts? Shall I make you an appointment?”

It’s a sobering reminder she’s having this conversation with Tony’s robot. Pepper buries her face in her hands. “No, J.A.R.V.I.S., that won’t be necessary,” she says, voice muffled. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if you knew what was bothering him?”

J.A.R.V.I.S. hadn’t told a soul Tony was dying of blood poisoning, yet he pipes, “He’s angry you didn’t answer his call, Ms. Potts.”

Her hands fly off her face. “What call? When?”

“When Mr. Stark had hold of the nuclear missile,” says J.A.R.V.I.S., “I suggested he call before he entered the wormhole.”

Pepper clutches a hand to her heart. “Before he - the wormhole - you suggested - ”

There’s a click as the doors unlock. Tony enters in the Iron Man suit, faceplate up, mouth set in a thin line.

Pepper springs to her feet. “Oh my God, Tony, I didn’t - ”

“You didn’t pick up. I needed you, and you weren’t there.”

“ - know,” Pepper finishes.

They stare at each other.

*

Natasha reminds herself Clint’s been hurt way worse as she enters Tony’s lab. “Here,” she says to Bruce, thrusting a t-shirt into his hands. She holds up the sweatpants she’d pilfered from Steve’s room and jerks her head toward Clint. “Help me with him?” she asks Daniel. She doesn’t wait for a response before unbuttoning Clint’s fly.

“Uh, sure,” says Daniel, lurching forward. He has to rest an elbow on the table for balance, but he’s able to lift Clint’s hips just enough for Natasha to get the jeans off. “Are ... his shorts inside out?”

One morning, years ago, she’d watched Clint turn a pair of boxers inside out and asked what he was doing. “What?” he’d replied. “My junk hasn’t rubbed against this side yet.”

“Just be glad he’s wearing underwear,” Natasha quips. Together, she and Daniel manage to get the sweatpants on Clint. She picks up the crumpled jeans, checking the pockets. The only thing she turns up is a ticket for the 7:05 out of Newark. That’d put him in Los Angeles a little after 10, an hour and change to Malibu ...

The waistband is stained with Clint’s blood.

Natasha drops the jeans.

Daniel picks them up. “I’ll take care of these,” he says. Natasha watches him hobble over to the trash can.  _ What is wrong with you? You’ve fished how many bullets out of Clint, yet you’re upset by a little blood? _

Three. That’s how many bullets she’s dug out over the years, including one from his thigh that came  _ thisclose _ to nicking Clint’s femoral artery. 

Steve and Peggy are the first back. “All clear,” says Steve, watching as Peggy makes a beeline for her husband. She greets Daniel with a kiss, and not on the cheek this time.

Natasha gropes for Clint’s hand. His color’s improved. She skims his wrist with her thumb. His pulse is steady, too.

“Tony,” Pepper’s saying when the lab door slides open, “would you just listen - oh my God, what happened? You didn’t tell me - ”

“Oh, Clint turned up,” Tony says flippantly, footfalls heavy in the Iron Man suit. “Did I not mention that?”

“Is that a - is that a  _ gunshot _ wound?” Pepper asks, incredulous.

_ Clint’s strong. He’s survived worse. _

“How are you holding up, Agent Romanoff?” Peggy asks kindly.

The question shouldn’t throw Natasha, but it does. The Peggy Carter of legend is brilliant and exacting and ruthless. But this Peggy? This Peggy’s wearing a blousy nightgown, hair in pin curls, husband’s arm slung around her waist. She looks like a wounded hero’s doting wife, not the most powerful woman in the world.

Then again, she’d also figured out the true nature of Natasha’s relationship with Clint in a matter of minutes. Maybe future director of S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t such a stretch.

Natasha lets go of Clint’s hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Tony approaching, but she doesn’t think much of it until she hears Pepper say, “Tony, what are you - ”

Too late. Tony’s already injected a bolus of something into Clint’s IV line. 

Natasha’s hand closes around Tony’s gauntlet. “The next words out of your mouth better be, ‘Bruce told me to,’” she hisses.

At the sound of his name, the scientist’s head jerks up. “Me? I didn’t tell Tony to do anything.” He pulls off his glasses. “Why? What did he do?”

“I ... just ... gave Clint a little  _ something _ to help him wake up,” says Tony. Natasha pushes his arm away in disgust.

“You did  _ what?” _ Bruce skitters across the lab to check the syringe. “Tony - ” he sighs “ - this is almost pure adrenaline.”

Heart hammering, Natasha asks, “What will - ”

Clint comes to with a gasp, arms swinging. Before Natasha can restrain him, he manages to sock her square in the jaw.

*

His fist connects with something solid. Something flesh.

The last thing Clint remembers is parking crooked at Stark’s gate. The gate, the gate. It hadn’t budged, so he’d set out on foot. Had he passed out? Probably. He’s lying flat on his back. His nerves feel like they’re on fire. He tries to swing his legs off the table.

He doesn’t get very far. He’s immediately restrained, muscled arms pinning him. But brute strength isn’t enough to hold Clint. He has to find Natasha, has to - 

He turns his head to where the man’s hand is splayed across his shoulder and bites a finger. Clint’s not above playing dirty.

The bite has the intended effect. But before Clint can free himself, someone else is pressing him to the table. This man’s face swims into focus. Dark hair, dark eyes, square jaw.  _ Peggy Carter’s husband. _

Clint recognizes Sousa from the photo in the director’s desk, and there’s Steve on his other side. They’re both shouting, but the angle’s wrong to read their lips. Had he actually landed in the right place?

_ Then where’s Natasha? _

He’s not going to be able to turn off the little voice in the back of his head until he finds her. His eyes dart frantically left and right, but he doesn’t see her. He must’ve been followed. He must’ve led them right to the Avengers.

Someone hauls Steve off him.

_ — He can’t hear you. _

Natasha looks right at Clint when she talks, and he stops struggling.

_ — Hey. _

_ — Hey yourself. _

_ — You OK? _

Chest still heaving, Clint stares into her green eyes. 

_ — I am now,  _ he mouths.

*

_ You missed something,  _ Daniel thinks when Natasha shouts that Agent Barton can’t hear them. He and Bruce had been operating on the assumption that the gunshot wound was the only injury.  _ He’s hurt worse than you thought.  _ What kind of hit would cause hearing loss?

Daniel stops trying to hold Barton down and gropes for his crutch, only to realize it’s no longer in reach. “Hey, Peg, can you - ”

But Steve’s already on it. “Here,” he says, one hand on Daniel’s shoulder to steady him until he can get his arm through the cuff. “You OK?”

“I’m not the one he bit,” Daniel points out. His grip tightens on the crutch. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Daniel scoots onto the stool, tugging his boxers back down over his stump. “Why can’t he hear anything?” he mutters into Peggy’s ear, looping an arm around her waist. Her hand slides over his.

Bruce is running his fingers behind Barton’s ears. “Yeah,” says the scientist, “Something’s definitely been done to his comms piece. J.A.R.V.I.S., can I get some light over here? I’m sure I can figure it out if you just give me a minute.”

“Or,” Tony suggests, “you could let the guy who built it take a look.”

Natasha rounds on him. “I think you’ve done enough,” she says coolly.

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Natasha, he has a point. It  _ is _ Stark tech.”

“What’s Stark tech?” Peggy wants to know at the same time Tony orders J.A.R.V.I.S. to pull up the schematics. The glowing outline of an ear pops up out of thin air. It’s like something out of one of the pulp science-fiction novels Jarvis insists are Howard’s but Daniel has seen the butler reading as he makes dinner. “What in the - ”

“It’s a hologram,” Pepper offers. It’s not the first time Daniel’s heard the word, but what Tony’s got is so far removed from the thing Samberly’s been tinkering with in the lab the comparison is meaningless. “It’s a three-dimensional rendering of Clint’s cochlear implant,” Pepper explains. “Agent Barton is deaf.”

Before Daniel can stop himself, he’s blurted, “How the hell does a deaf man become a secret agent?”

The room falls silent. “Same way an amputee becomes West Coast Bureau Chief of the SSR, I expect,” quips Bruce, and he quickly ducks his head. “J.A.R.V.I.S., can you scan Agent Barton’s right ear? The transmitter’s clearly busted, but I’m afraid the stimulator might be damaged, too.”

The tips of Daniel’s ears light up. “That’s not what I meant,” he insists. What’s impressive to him is that a disabled agent is considered a fully capable member of the team. Daniel’s got plenty of men who respect him at the SSR. But he sticks to his job as tactician, doesn’t try to go out in the field.

“It appears the problem is in the electrode array,” says J.A.R.V.I.S., bringing up a diagram of the inner ear. “A small, localized EMP field could produce this result.”

“OK, then we pop a new one in,” says Tony, finally stepping out of the Iron Man suit. He claps his hands. “What do we need?”

“Tony,” Bruce says, “you can’t just - we’re talking  _ surgery. _ He’s lost enough blood I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting him under general anesthesia for at least a day or two. No, what Clint needs right now is rest. We can debrief in the morning.”

But Barton begins to shake his head furiously.

“He’s saying it can’t wait,”says Natasha. There’s something about the way she and Barton are communicating, not with words or signs but rather minute gestures and body posture that fascinates Daniel. He’s honestly not sure he could read Peggy that well, and he and his wife make a pretty good team.

Tony circles the table. “Oh good,” he drawls, “I’ve always loved charades -  _ ow.” _ He rubs the back of his head, glaring at Barton. “What was that for? You can’t even hear me.”

“I can read lips, asshole,” says Barton irritably, though his face sinks into a grimace. He starts to reach for his side.

Natasha catches his hand. “Don’t,” she says, lacing her fingers with his. Barton looks surprised, but he nods.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all glad you’re alive,” says Tony impatiently, “but what we really want to know is who shot you.”

Barton gestures to Natasha. “Bruce,” she says, “it’s not - Clint’s earpiece isn’t still transmitting, is it?” 

Before the scientist can answer, J.A.R.V.I.S. flashes the words  _ BARTON COMMS OFFLINE  _ for everyone to see.

“And it’s not possible for someone else to access the feed, right?”

Bruce pulls off his glasses. “Well, I wouldn’t say impossible. Certainly improbable, though.”

Tony’s got a quick comeback about a Stark Industries secure line, but Daniel’s too busy studying the diagram on the wall to listen.

_ Electrode array ... receiver ... transmitter ...  _ half of Agent Barton’s comms piece is actually  _ inside _ his ear. Which means he wouldn’t be able to just turn it off if he thought he’d been compromised, Daniel realizes. “He’d have to tear it out.”

He also realizes he’s said this out loud. 

Natasha whirls around. “What did you say?” Without waiting for an answer, she turns back to Clint. “Is that true?” she asks, signing as she speaks. “Did you do this to yourself?”

There’s something unsettling about Clint’s gaze as he stares at Daniel for a moment, then nods. “Decided I didn’t need anyone else inside my head.” He clears his throat. “Bruce, you’re sure it’s not on?”

_ TRANSMISSION DETECTED _

_ “Shut it down,”  _ Tony commands, tone deadly. “J.A.R.V.I.S., take the house offline if you have to.”

“But, sir - ”

“Just do it!” barks Tony, dropping into the nearest chair and yanking the keyboard closer. “Until I figure out who’s listening, no one talks. Got it?  _ Got it?” _

“We know, Tony,” says Natasha. Daniel notices her hands haven’t stopped moving. Neither have Clint’s.

But for several tense minutes, the only sound in the lab is Tony’s furious typing. Eventually, he nods once, twice, three times. “You’re sure, J.A.R.V.I.S.?”

“You’re the one who programmed me, sir,” comes the robot’s cheeky reply.

“Right, and I’m a genius,” Tony murmurs. “OK,” he declares, “crisis averted. What J.A.R.V.I.S. detected was a pingback. Someone  _ had _ tapped the feed. But without the external microphone to filter audible speech, they’d only be able to hear what Clint does. Which is nothing. So let’s hear it for Clint.” He holds his hands up and wiggles his wrists. He gets a murderous glare from Natasha. “What? That’s how the deaf applaud!”

“I’m sure she knows that, Tony,” Bruce says wearily.

Clint’s hands haven’t stopped moving. “Boynton,” Natasha says suddenly. “Senator Boynton?” He nods vigorously, then winces. “They need to know, Clint.” To Bruce, she says, “Can you give him anything for the pain?”

“I’m fine, Nat,” Clint insists, though sweat’s starting to bead on his brow. “Just some water’d be great.” It’s when Clint stretches out his arm to take the glass from Steve that Daniel notices the scars streaking Clint’s back. Daniel knew a couple of guys who came back with marks like that. They’d all been tortured. “Thanks,” says Clint, wiping a dribble of water from his chin. “And, uh, sorry I bit you.”

The way Steve’s averted his eyes tells Daniel the supersoldier knows what those scars mean, too.

“Right,” says Clint. “So Fury has me poking around an old military installation in Jersey where S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ used to - ”

“You mean Camp Lehigh?” Peggy says sharply.

J.A.R.V.I.S. helpfully flashes her words for Clint to read. “Yeah,” he says, clearly surprised, “but how’d you - ”

“Because we were stationed there in ’43,” says Steve. “Go on.”

“I’m eating lunch in Director Carter’s office - ” Clint jerks his chin at Peggy “ - and talking to Nat when I realize something’s off. It takes me a minute to figure out what’s changed. Suddenly the desk has three drawers.”

“What do you mean, ‘Suddenly the desk has three drawers?’” Bruce demands.

_ “I mean,” _ says Clint, and he’s talking a little too fast and a little too loud, “the desk suddenly had three drawers. It only had two when I walked into the room. I was about to call Nat back when I heard a couple of voices in the hall talking about Senator Boynton, the one who’s calling for an investigation into what happened in New York. Next thing I know, one of them’s identified himself as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. I recognize Academy training when I see it, but no way a Level 4 agent should’ve been there. Fury never would’ve authorized it. I felt I had to neutralize the threat.”

Bruce, still stuck on the fact the desk grew an extra drawer, is muttering something about the space-time continuum, but Daniel’s more interested in the flash of guilt that crosses Clint’s face.

“Level 4?” Peggy wants to know. “Agent Barton, you’ll have to excuse us, Daniel and I aren’t yet familiar with S.H.I.E.L.D. clearance levels.”

“Field clearance,” Natasha explains. “They’re trained in hand-to-hand combat, probably have a few missions under their belts. Eligible for undercover assignments. Clint and I are Level 7.”

Clint’s starting to sweat again. “Didn’t have any trouble taking down the first guy, but the second knew how to fight. Slammed my head into a filing cabinet before I managed to shoot him. I tried to radio Nat, but I wasn’t fast enough. Next thing I know, a woman’s firing a round into my gut. I came to in an empty office with my ears ringing. And I mean empty. They’d taken every book, all the furniture. I don’t think they knew what I was looking for, just that I was looking for something, and they wanted to make damn sure I didn’t find it.”

“Why smash your earpiece?” Peggy asks. “Why not call S.H.I.E.L.D.? Why fly across - ”

“Because,” Natasha interrupts. “S.H.I.E.L.D. answers to the World Security Council, and there’s talk of giving Senator Boynton free rein to investigate the Chitauri invasion. They could vote as soon as this week.”

To Peggy, Clint says, “I almost called S.H.I.E.L.D. Had a finger on my comms when I realized it didn’t feel right. Why not kill me? No, they wanted me to call for a medevac so they could listen in on my mission debrief, figure out why I was at Lehigh in the first place.”

Bruce is massaging his temples. “The desk changed. I can’t believe the desk changed. It’s not supposed to - ”

“I tried to warn you,” Tony interjects, “but you wouldn’t listen.”

“Maybe it’s a good sign,” says Peggy. “Maybe Howard’s a step closer to solving this on his end.”

Tony scoffs. “Did you hear that? Dad’s on it. Guess we don’t have anything to worry about.”

Daniel figures it’s worth a shot to try to defuse the tension. “I don’t know,” he says lightly. “Peggy keeps a pretty messy desk. You sure you’ll find what you need to send us back in there?”

“Tony,” Natasha says slowly, “after Clint’s feed was hijacked, what would have happened to any transmissions to him?”

Tony shrugs. “Probably relayed to whoever had control of his comms piece. Why?”

Bruce now has a fistful of hair in each hand. “Because Natasha no doubt told Clint to look for a sample of Zero Matter.”

The Avengers all start talking at once.

“We need the desk.”

“Senator Boynton is our only lead.”

“But how do we get at him?”

“His security detail’s as tight as the president’s these days.”

Daniel hears Pepper say, “He’ll be at a gala this week for wounded veterans,” but no one else seems to.

“I can try my contact at the Secret Service.”

“Can we trust him?”

“Her,” Natasha corrects, “and no. But she might be our best shot.”

“We could kidnap him.”

“Senator Boynton? You can’t kidnap - ”

“Remember the last time we kidnapped a sitting U.S. senator? Good times.”

“I really hope that was sarcasm.”

“The Stark Foundation made a very generous donation to a charity event Senator Boynton will be attending,” says Pepper, louder this time. Finally, she has their attention. “Would you like me to see about tickets?”

Natasha blinks. “When is it?” she inquires.

“Tomorrow,” says Pepper. “Wait, it’s after midnight. Today. Tonight. Monday night.”

But Natasha’s shaking her head. “Too soon. Clint won’t be field-ready, and I’ll attract too much attention if I go in alone.”

“Then I’ll go in with you,” Steve offers. “I’m sure - ”

“You’re too recognizable,” says Natasha.

“I can do it,” Clint insists.

“You have a gaping hole in your side,” Natasha retorts. “No.”

Daniel clears his throat, frankly a little surprised Peggy hasn’t already volunteered. “Didn’t Pepper, uh, say it was a benefit for wounded veterans?”

*

Natasha doesn’t offer to help get Clint to bed. She knows Bruce’ll take care of it, and she has to get her head on straight. So as soon as it’s agreed there’s not much to be done until morning, she takes off. Doesn’t say anything, just turns and leaves.

She makes the mistake of glancing back to gauge Clint’s reaction.

But his face is totally impassive.

_ What were you expecting, Natasha? He’s a professional. Maybe you ought to take notes. _

Natasha cringes when she remembers how she’d taken his hand, how she’d stroked his hair. It’s not like that with Clint. Their relationship isn’t tender. They don’t make love. They fuck, usually in bombed out hotels on filthy mattresses when they’re both a little raw from a mission. Sometimes in a straw hut in Bali. Sometimes in her Cleveland Park apartment. They aren’t exclusive. She’s never cared if he forgot to call.

Though Natasha’s not sure if Clint’s ever forgotten to call. He’s nothing if not reliable. If he says he’s showing up in 20 minutes with Chinese food, he’ll be there in 15 with fried rice and egg rolls.

_ Clint got hurt, and you overreacted.  _ Simple as that. Natasha can hear him in the hall, wearily reminding Steve or Bruce or whoever got tasked with putting him to bed that he has to be able to see lips to read them. Clint’s safe. Tomorrow -  _ today _ \- things will go back to how they were before New York. Partners, fuck buddies. That’s it.

Natasha kills the bedside lamp.

The knock at her door is hesitant. Bruce, probably. Tony would just barge in, and Steve doesn’t know his own strength. She sighs. “Come in.”

But the door doesn’t open and the scientist doesn’t enter. That’s when Natasha realizes it’s not Bruce out in the hallway after all.

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” she informs Clint.  _ Bed,  _ she knows how to sign. She puts her palms together and rests her cheek against her hands, then points to the door across from hers.

Clint’s had to roll the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants over to get them to fit. He starts to cross his arms, winces, drops his hands to his side like he’s not sure what to do with them. He’s shirtless but for all the bandages. His eyes are bloodshot. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?” Natasha asks before she remembers Clint punching her. He’s hit her much harder during sparring sessions.  _ Don’t worry about it,  _ she should say.  _ Good night.  _

Instead, she grabs his hand.

“Tasha - ”

_ — Pain?  _ Natasha sighs, tapping her index fingers together and arching an eyebrow once she’s dragged him into the bathroom.

Clint doesn’t say anything, just watches as she dampens a clean washcloth, dabbing away what crusted blood she can. Then she takes his hand again and leads him to her bed. “Lie down.”

“Nat - ”

_ “Lie down,”  _ she says again, and once he has, she crawls in next to him, careful not to jostle his broken ribs. Gingerly, she lowers her head to his chest and breathes in coppery blood and stale sweat, cheap hotel shampoo because he never remembers to pack his own. “J.A.R.V.I.S., turn off the lights.”

_ You don’t do intimate,  _ Natasha reminds herself. Still, she tells him, “You’re not allowed to scare me like that ever again.”

Though he can’t hear her, his fingers tangle in her hair.

_ Tomorrow.  _ She can do not intimate tomorrow. Natasha closes her eyes and lets herself drift off to the steady thrum of Clint’s heart. 

*

**_Los Angeles, June 1949_ **

It’s Rose’s job to open the Auerbach Theatrical Agency every morning, a responsibility she takes seriously. She’s always the first to arrive and often the last to leave, unless Peggy and Daniel are burning the midnight oil. So it’s startling when she turns the key in the lock and hears, “It’s not going to work.”

Rose’s hand flies to her chest. “Aloysius,” she says, relaxing her grip on her pistol when she realizes it’s only Samberly. “What if I’d drawn my gun?”

The scientist wrinkles his nose. “Why would you pull a gun on me?”

Instead of rattling off the names of a half-dozen agents who probably wouldn’t need a reason to shoot Samberly, Rose says, “Well, I wouldn’t if I knew it was you, silly.” 

Samberly, of course, looks positively  _ delighted. _ “I didn’t know you felt that way about me, Rose,” he says pompously.

Rose needs to break into the chief’s office, plant the schematics for Howard’s time machine and arrange for a sample of Zero Matter to be transferred to SSR cold storage in Fresno, all before the other agents arrive at work. She crosses her arms. “And why won’t it work, Aloysius?”

He matches her stance. “Don’t you think people will ask questions when Chief Sousa and Agent Carter don’t show up for work?”

“Easy. They called in sick.”

“Both of them?”

“Poor dear,” says Rose, tapping her foot impatiently, “sounded like she had a chest cold. I think Chief Sousa wanted to make sure she stayed in bed.”

“What if they’re still gone tomorrow? What if they’re out the rest of the week? What if - ”

“Oh no! It sounds like Peggy must’ve given whatever she had to her husband. I told the chief to stay home until he felt better.”

“Not everyone knows they’re married,” Samberly points out, obnoxiously blocking the path to the filing room. “If anyone from D.C. finds out - ”

“Aloysius!” Rose snaps. “I’ll handle it. OK? Now if you’ll excuse me - ”

But Samberly isn’t finished. “Chief Sousa’s the only one with a key to his office.”

“Not true,” Rose counters. “He had a copy made for Peggy.” A copy Rose pretends not to know about, but that’s neither here nor there. She digs around in her handbag for Peggy’s keys, which had been in the purse her friend left in 1949. That hadn’t worried Rose. But it had made her uneasy to think about her friend arriving in the future without a gun.

Maybe Samberly is right. Maybe this won’t work. Maybe they really won’t see the Sousas ever again.

Well, Rose refuses to believe that. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” she says, “I’m going to make sure these notes make it onto Chief Sousa’s desk.”

Daniel’s office is exactly as he left it on Friday, right down to the dirty mug he’s using as a paperweight. Make that  _ someone _ is using as a paperweight. There’s a tea bag plastered to the side of it, and Rose can just see Peggy, feet on her husband’s desk, the pair of them bandying ideas back and forth at the end of a long week. 

They’ll get the Sousas home. They  _ have _ to.

And it’s up to Rose to get the ball rolling. According to Howard, where she put his notes wasn’t important, just the fact that she put them  _ there.  _ So she leaves the drawings, Samberly’s equations, the lot of it, stacked neatly in the Chief’s in tray. Rose picks up Peggy’s mug - she’s not in the habit of cleaning up after agents, but she’ll make an exception this once - and runs straight into Samberly.

_ “Aloysius,”  _ she says sternly.

“Chief Thompson’s on the phone,” he informs her. “He wants to talk to Chief Sousa.”

Rose pushes past him. “Why’d you pick up?” she hisses. The New York office has been open for nearly three hours, but it’s not even 8 o’clock in California, which is early enough Jack shouldn’t expect anyone to answer.

Unless he’s desperate.

“I don’t know!” Samberly says, following Rose back to her desk. “It was ringing and - ”

Rose picks up the phone. “Auerbach Theatrical Agency,” she says sweetly.

_ “Rose,”  _ Jack barks. “Sousa in yet?”

She plasters a smile on her face. She tells the male agents all the time, they’ll sound nicer if they just smile. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Jack. I’m afraid he’s out today.”

The line crackles. “OK, what about Carter?”

“Also out.”

Jack groans. “Sousa mentioned last week he and Marge were headed to Malibu, be back Monday. Don’t tell me they decided to make it a long weekend. Listen, you got Stark’s number handy? I’m calling them - ”

“You can’t,” Rose blurts.

“Why the hell not?” Jack demands.

Rose has to think fast. “Because they’re not in town,” she says, fingers curling in the phone cord. “No, his mother’s taken ill. They didn’t want anyone to know. Last I heard, Stark had offered to fly them back East for a few days.”

“Must be pretty serious if Peggy went with him,” says Jack. Rose makes a noncommittal noise. “OK, I guess it can wait a day or two.” For a second, she’s worried she hasn’t sold it. Then Jack continues, “And Rose? Send some flowers or something. Take it out of the New York budget. Make sure my name gets on the card.”

Samberly gapes at her. “You just lied to Chief Thompson,” he says once she’s hung up the receiver. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “It’s not going to work.” He leans on Rose’s desk. “Tell you what. If by some miracle it  _ does _ work, I’ll buy you a drink.”

Here’s how confident Rose feels after successfully throwing Jack off the Sousas’ scent: “I’ll take that bet,” she tells Samberly.

“Does that mean you’ll buy  _ me _ a drink when we never see the Sousas again?” he asks excitedly.

“I wouldn’t count on it, Aloysius,” Rose says, smiling sweetly. “Never is an  _ awfully _ a long time.”

*

**_Malibu, June 2012_ **

Daniel’s no sooner lowered himself on the cool tile of the built-in bench - whether it’s been two days or 63 years since he last bathed, he figures he’s overdue for a shower either way - than he hears his name. He cringes. Apparently he hadn’t been as stealthy slipping out of bed as he thought. “I was about to shower, Peg,” he calls. “Unless you need something?”

No answer.

Daniel finishes unwrapping his stump, fingers sliding along the underside to make sure no new sores have opened up, but he doesn’t find anything that hadn’t been there the day before. If he can just figure out which knob controls the hot water. Daniel tries his luck with the middle dial. Water begins to drip from the ceiling, like a warm, gentle rainfall. He snorts.  _ Without a doubt,  _ he thinks,  _ Howard would approve. _

Still, even Daniel has to admit it feels pretty good. He closes his eyes.

“Daniel?”

He opens his eyes at the sound of Peggy’s voice. Steam hangs in the air. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, doubting Peggy wants to get ready in a fog. He reaches for the faucet. “Let me just - ”

He almost loses his balance, foot sliding on the slick floor. He catches himself just in time, but he’s not exactly surprised when Peggy pokes her head in to check on him. “Everything all right?” 

“Yeah,” Daniel mutters, red-faced. He can’t look his wife in the eye. “Fine.”

“So you don’t mind if I join you?”

Before he can formulate a response, Peggy’s slipping the robe off her shoulders. _ “Peg,”  _ he says slowly as she steps into the spray, “what’re you - ”

Peggy sinks to her knees.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

“Good morning,” Peggy says silkily, and Daniel’s blood rushes south the moment she spreads her fingers over his inner thigh. Even in the haze, he can see the corners of her mouth are slightly upturned. Daniel draws a shuddering breath as she reaches for his balls. His dick jerks.  _ “Chief.” _

He groans. “P-Peggy,” he coughs. It would probably be gentlemanly to stop her, only Daniel really, really doesn’t want her to quit. Her hand glides along his hardening length, water cascading over her shoulders, droplets clinging to her full breasts.

“Dan- _ iel,” _ she teases, and she bobs her head to take the tip of his cock into her mouth.

The first time she’d gone down on him, he’d been so worried about her nearness to his stump he hadn’t been able to enjoy it. But that was two years ago. Peggy’s not going anywhere. She flicks her tongue over his sensitive head, and Daniel has to grip the edge of the shower bench to keep from thrusting into the wet heat of her mouth. He hears -  _ feels _ \- his wife’s little hum of approval around his cock. Then the hand she has splayed against his thigh moves very suddenly. There isn’t even time for him to tense before Peggy hooks her arm around his short right leg and drags him closer. Their eyes lock as she lifts up on her knees. She flutters her long lashes at him.

Yeah, he’s not going to last.

Daniel tangles his fingers in her hair. “I’m close, Peggy,” he warns her as the pleasure builds at the base of his spine. “Peggy? Did you hear - ”

Oh, she heard him, if the way she cups his balls is any indication. Daniel knows he shouldn’t, not in her mouth, but he does, gasping her name as she swallows him down. His chest’s still heaving when Peggy pulls off his dick with wet  _ pop. _ She wipes her mouth. “Will that be all, Chief?”

_ Vixen. _

Daniel waits until his wife starts to rise to growl,  _ “C’mere.” _ And he yanks her off balance, pulling her in for a filthy kiss. He can taste himself on Peggy’s lips and tongue as he settles her on his lap, sliding his right hand between her milky thighs. “Your turn.”

One of the many things Daniel loves about his wife is how thoroughly she seems to enjoy herself when they’re having sex. So he’s not surprised to find her already wet. He plunges two fingers into her and quickly adds a third. Peggy quivers, locking her wrists around his neck. “Kiss me,” she orders.

Daniel shakes his head. “You got to watch,” he reminds her. He’s slightly hoarse. When his thumb skims her clit, she throws her head back and hisses. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you - ” he crooks his fingers, and her whole body shudders “ - but I like it.” He has to remind himself he married this woman, that there’s nothing particularly debaucherous about having sex with his wife.

Only he can’t shake the feeling he’s getting away with something as Peggy writhes and squirms in his arms. She tries planting a foot for leverage, but the floor’s too slippery. “Peg,” Daniel murmurs as she rocks forward on his hand, “it’s OK. I’ve got you.”

He’ll never tire of hearing her cry his name when she comes. Peggy drops her forehead to his temple as he continues to stroke her through the aftershocks. “Too much,” she whispers, and Daniel immediately withdraws his hand.

“Peggy? Are you - ”

She’s crying.

For a single, terrible second, Daniel thinks he’s somehow hurt her, and he shifts her weight in his arms so she can get away from him if she wants. But all this does is make Peggy bury her face in his neck.

“All I can think about is getting back to 1949 with you,” she sniffs.

Now thoroughly confused, Daniel asks, “Is that a bad thing?” He keeps his tone light, just in case.

Peggy’s wet curls tickle his chin. “We’ll have to leave Steve behind.” She pulls back, biting her lip. “We  _ leave  _ Steve behind.”

_She just said she wants to go back with you,_ Daniel reminds himself. He swallows. “Let me wash your hair,” he suggests, so he’ll have something to do with his hands.

“OK,” Peggy agrees, scooting off his lap so she can reach the shampoo. She passes it wordlessly to her husband and settles on the tile bench in front of him.

“I’ll be gentle,” Daniel promises, sweeping her hair to one side and pressing a kiss to her shoulder. If he knows his wife - and Daniel’s pretty sure he does - she’ll talk when she’s ready. There are so few people Peggy’s willing to let her hair down for. Most days, he’s just glad to be one of them. His fingers draw a sigh of contentment as he massages her scalp.

“Mmm,” Peggy murmurs. “That feels wonderful, darling.” She pauses. “It was never like this with Steve.”

“What, no endless supply of hot water?” Daniel teases. “Must not’ve served on the same Western Front I did. Let me tell you, the French know how to build a bathroom.”

Peggy chuckles. “Steve and I got on like a house on fire.”

“There was a war going on,” Daniel points out. He’d had a whirlwind romance of his own, not that she’d stuck around after the surgeon took his leg. “Who didn’t?” He nudges Peggy’s right leg with what’s left of his. “Tilt your head.”

Once the shampoo’s been rinsed from her hair, Peggy says, “You know what happens to a house on fire? Eventually it burns down.”

There’s a lump in Daniel’s throat when he says, “You don’t know that’s what would’ve happened.”

“Yes, I do,” Peggy counters. “After last night, I do.”

Daniel squeezes conditioner into his hand. “Do I want to know what happened on that patrol?” he asks, combing his fingers through her hair.

“Steve is the same person he’s always been. Selfless, brave, kind - ” Peggy clucks her tongue “ - also brash, impulsive and pigheaded.”

Daniel freezes, wondering if Peggy realizes she’s just described herself. He recovers quickly. “I don’t know, Peggy,” he says softly. “You’re talking about Captain America.”

“That’s just it,” she says, twisting to face him. “I was never in love with Captain America. It was always Steve. Steve Rogers, whom I loved and lost and mourned.” Daniel opens his mouth, but she presses a finger to his lips. “Then I met you, Daniel Sousa. We fell in love, got married, and as difficult as it will be to leave Steve, my future is with you. Wash my back?”

Daniel kisses her finger.

“None of that,” Peggy scolds, as if  _ he’s _ the one who interrupted  _ her  _ shower. “We have a mission to prepare for.”

*

Clint wakes up alone.

It’s not unexpected. Sure, it had been nice to sleep next to Natasha after the shit day he’d had. But the invitation to her bed had been a surprise, and this morning he’s back to taking what he can get.

For now, that’s a hot shower. If he can rinse off some of the blood and grime, he might feel like himself again. Of course, Clint has to get to the bathroom first. No small task when you’ve bled through your bandages and are sticking to the sheets. He groans.  _ Natasha’s going to kill you. _

Clint’s about as safe as he can get at Stark mansion with the other Avengers, but he still finds it disconcerting to trudge to the bathroom in complete silence. He’d spent enough time in his head before S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited him, and even though it’ll likely only be a couple of days before his comms piece is fixed, he’s not looking forward to it.

_ — You look like hell,  _ Clint tells his reflection. He watches his lips move in the mirror. He wonders if any sound’s coming out.

It takes Clint about six seconds to decide a shower’s out of the question. He really does have a gaping hole in his side, and if he’s being brutally honest with himself, the walk from the bedroom has him feeling a little light-headed. His pride’s suffered enough without passing out in a naked heap in the shower for Natasha to find.

Bath it is.

Clint swears he’s rented apartments smaller than the tub in Natasha’s ensuite. He’s run two inches of water before it occurs to him he should have gone back across the hall to the room Bruce had shown him. Too late. He steps out of the too-big sweatpants and lowers himself gingerly into the water. Fuck, he’s sore. Clint closes his eyes.

He’s not expecting to see Natasha perched on the edge of the tub when he opens them again. 

_ — Careful. Wouldn’t want you to drown.  _ She holds her left hand flat, draws her right hand down, swirling her forefinger. It’s not quite the right sign, but Clint appreciates the effort.

_ — I’m not gonna drown in two inches of water, Tasha.  _

_ — Here,  _ she says, patting a stack of fluffy towels she’s set on the ledge,  _ brought you these. Can I help? _

_ — Don’t you have a mission to plan?  _ Clint racks his brain, but he can’t recall another time she’s offered to mop him up in all the years they’ve been doing this. Hell, he damn near bled out in Chechnya, and she still let him hobble off to the bathroom alone.

Natasha shrugs. 

Clint tells himself not to get used to it as Natasha reaches for the shampoo. That’s always been the deal. He’s never let himself want more than she was willing to give, and it’s worked for them. But fuck if this doesn’t do it for him, her fingers running through his hair, lightly massaging his scalp.

When his hair’s been washed and rinsed, she reaches for what looks like a small plastic clip.

Clint makes a face.

_ — What? It’s a hearing aid. _

_ — I know what it is,  _ Clint grumbles as she slides it over his ear.  _ Makes me feel like an old man, that’s all. _

“You  _ are _ an old man,” Natasha points out.

She smirks, which almost makes up for how tinny she sounds. It’s almost certainly an upgrade from the very first earpiece S.H.I.E.L.D. issued Clint, but it’s nowhere near as good as what he’s grown accustomed to. “Gee, thanks,” he mutters. 

Natasha bites her lip. “Mind if I take a look? Unless you’d rather - ”

“What, have Bruce do it?” Clint smiles. “Let’s keep this to people who’ve already seen my junk if we can.”

“Oh, did nobody tell you?” Natasha deadpans. “We stripped you down in the lab last night.”

“Very funny.”

But neither of them is laughing when she pulls back the last layer of gauze. “Jesus, Clint,” says Natasha. “Just how close range was this?”

_ Close.  _ Clint doesn’t answer. He grits his teeth as Natasha repacks the wound. Her fingers skim the scars on his back. She’s never asked, but he’d tell her if she did.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Clint’s accepted this might be fleeting, but he still needs to know. “Why’re you here, Nat? Is it an only-in-Malibu thing? An I’m-sorry-you-had-to-deal-with-Newark thing? I’m not - ”

She kisses him.

Grabs his face, drags him toward her and mashes her lips against his. There’s only one thing for Clint to do, and that’s kiss her back. 

It’s a shit angle, and he’s probably in danger of puncturing a lung, but he kisses Natasha and kisses Natasha until he absolutely has to come up for air. Chest heaving, he stares at her.

She’s biting her lip. “It doesn’t have to be a one-time thing.”

*

“No, that’s not what I told you,” Pepper says, and as hard as she’s trying to control the breath,  _ pranayama _ won’t make her assistant any more competent. “Sousa. No, not with a Z. With an S. Like the composer. Yes. S-O-U-S-A.”

That’s when she notices Natasha leaning in the doorway.

“Charity,” says Pepper, cutting her assistant off, “I’ll have to call you back.” There’s a click. “How long have you been standing there?”

“A while,” says Natasha, her fingertips brushing one of the insanely expensive marble end tables as she saunters in. “New assistant?”

Tony’s scared off three since New York, but Pepper’s not about to tell Natasha that. “You know,” says Pepper, “if you ever wanted to work for Stark Industries again, we pay very competitively.”

“Were you able to get the tickets?”

Pepper sighs. “Yes.”

“But?” Natasha prompts.

“They want Steve.”

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent’s expression doesn’t change. “OK.”

“I thought you said he was too recognizable.”

“He is.”

But this is Pepper’s first time securing covers for the Avengers so they can break into one senator’s mansion to steal from another. “I guess I’m not following you, Nat.”

Natasha’s shoulders lift in the barest of shrugs. “He’ll provide cover.”

“While you steal back the sample.” 

No answer. 

“Natasha,” Pepper says warningly.

“I’ll be there,” says the former Soviet assassin, “for backup.”

_ They’re actually going to do it. They’re going to send Peggy and Daniel in.  _ Pepper shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Absolutely not.”

“Why? Because she’s pregnant?”

Pepper’s head whips up. “How did you - ”

“I read her S.H.I.E.L.D. file cover to cover,” Natasha interjects. “How did  _ you _ know?”

“I took her to the doctor yesterday,” Pepper admits.

Natasha looks mildly curious, but that’s it. “And the husband, does he know?”

“Only if she’s told him since yesterday.”  _ Which she seemed reluctant to do. _

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

Pepper stares at Natasha. “You can’t be serious.”

“Bruce says these things have already happened.”

“So?”

“So Peggy Carter gave birth to a healthy baby boy in a New York hospital in December 1949.”

Pepper lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “That was in the S.H.I.E.L.D. file?”

Natasha nods. She studies Pepper. “You want to tell her.”

“Of course I want to tell her! Do you have any idea how scared she is? How afraid she is she’ll lose this - ”

“If you tell her, she might not go. If she doesn’t go, we might have to call the mission off. If we call the mission off, we might not have another chance to steal back the Zero Matter. Do you get where I’m going with this?”

“Yes,” says Pepper through gritted teeth. 

“The priority is to get the Sousas back to 1949,” Natasha continues. “Look, I’ll check her file after the mission, see if the birth certificate’s still there. OK?”

It’s so far from OK, Pepper’s only response is to plaster a smile on her face. “I’ll see to it that my assistant takes care of everything,” she says sweetly. “How’s Agent Barton this morning?” 

This time, Pepper holds her breath waiting for Natasha’s reaction.

“It was a flesh wound,” says the spy. “He’ll be fine.”

Her tone doesn’t change. Pepper thinks that’s more telling than if it had.

*

It’s subtle, the way Peggy’s husband slides his hand over her hip as he circles the table, but Steve notices it. He notices, too, how Peggy steps into the space her husband makes for her, the private smile they share when she tilts her chin. Sousa taps the blueprint spread out in front of them. “It’ll be here,” he declares.

Peggy turns toward him, hand on her hip. “What makes you so sure?”

“Think about it,” he says, tracing a route from the front door to an upstairs mezzanine. “If a guest enters here, they’ll have access to every room along this hallway. But the library’s different. They’d have to cut through - ”

“Of course,” Peggy agrees. “How foolish of me not to see it sooner. You’re right, absolutely right. Well, this changes things. We ought to stage on the property’s west side, not the east.”

But Sousa’s shaking his head. “I don’t know, Peg.” He hobbles to the other side of the table, licks his finger before opening an architectural magazine featuring the mansion they’ll be infiltrating. “I could’ve sworn I saw - ”

“Oh bloody hell, the retaining wall. No, that won’t work. Could Agent Barton park the van behind the property?”

“Hey, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” calls Sousa, and Steve has to give the man credit because he wouldn’t have thought to ask Tony’s robot, “what do we know about the access road?”

“One moment, Chief Sousa. Allow me to pull up Google Earth.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees Peggy reach for her husband’s hand and give it a quick squeeze.

It’s just too familiar, too affectionate, to take. “I’m going to grab a glass of water,” Steve mutters, beating a hasty retreat.

He almost runs over Clint.

“No, no,” says the archer, wincing as he rubs his sternum, “human beings just have a little more give usually, that’s all.” He waves off Steve’s stammered apology. “Kitchen that way?”

“Yeah,” Steve mutters before remembering Clint might not be able to hear him. He jerks a thumb in the opposite direction. “It’s through there. Can you - ”

“Hear?” Clint interjects. “Yeah, Stark fixed my aids.” His face sinks into a grimace, though, right as Steve spots the thin wires. “Only the damn things keep shocking me. Can’t decide if it’s a design flaw - ”

“ - or Stark’s idea of a practical joke?” Steve supplies. It occurs to him this is the closest thing to a conversation he’s ever had with Clint. He clears his throat. “You hungry?”

In the kitchen, Steve watches Clint pull Bruce’s soymilk out of the fridge, take a swig and spit it back into the carton. “Jesus Christ,” Clint swears, squinting at the label. “Banner?” he guesses. Steve nods, wonders if he should say something. But Clint’s already returned the soymilk to the shelf. He produces two individually-wrapped cheese sticks - Steve’s  _ still _ not used to how stuff’s packaged in the 21st century - and a takeaway box etched with Natasha’s name. “What?” says Clint, as though he can read Steve’s mind. “She won’t care.”

And he proceeds to shovel moo shu pork into his mouth, pausing occasionally to rip off a hunk of mozzarella with his teeth. 

“So,” says Clint between bites, “tell me about them.”

There’s a grain of rice clinging to Clint’s lower lip. Steve gestures vaguely to his mouth before asking, “Who?”

Clint, busy swallowing, stabs the air with his fork. “Who do you think? The Sousas, of course.”

Fortunately for Steve, Clint’s too busy gulping down orange juice to see the supersoldier bristle. “You’re the one who’s read their file.”

Clint snorts. “C’mon, Rogers. I’m not interested in what makes the official mission report, and you know it. Honest assessment. Go.”

Steve thinks about Sousa’s hand on the small of Peggy’s back. If he’d tried that back in ’45, he’d have gotten an elbow to the kidneys. “Good tactician,” Steve concedes. “It’s clear why he got put in charge. He thinks things through, doesn’t rush in.” Steve forces a smile. “Not great with a razor.”

But he doesn’t get so much as a chuckle. “What about her?” Clint asks. “She live up to the legend?” Steve nods wistfully. “Can they be trusted to work as a team?”

_ They have their own shorthand,  _ Steve thinks. Peggy’s known her husband for four years, longer than she did Steve. “Yeah,” he says finally. “You can.”

“Good to know,” says Clint. “Gotta say, Rogers, as much as I hate running blind ops, I’m eager to see Peggy Carter in action.”

The smile slides off Steve’s face. “Wait, you’re running the op?”

“Did Nat not tell you?” Clint arches an eyebrow when Steve shakes his head. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“N-no,” Steve coughs. He feels guilty his reaction to a bleeding, unconscious Clint had been to ask if the archer was compromised. “It’s just - you sure you’re up for it, soldier?”

Clint sets the empty orange juice container down with enough force to make it bounce off the counter. “I’m not a soldier,” he tells Steve. “I’m a spy.”

*

It’s clear the prosthesis was designed for Daniel. So why is Bruce having so much trouble building it? He bites down on his pencil as he consults Howard’s notes. Bruce idly flips the drawing over. Still blank.  _ Maybe Tony’s right. Maybe it’s Howard’s design that’s flawed. _ But it’s Bruce who feels like a failure. Frustrated, he ejects the pencil from his mouth with his tongue. It skips off the lab table and clatters to the floor. Bruce sighs as he ducks down to retrieve it.

“Can I interrupt?”

Bruce just about brains himself. “Clint,” he says, blowing out a puff of air. “Honestly? You’re not interrupting much.” He clears his throat. “How can I help? Did you need me to take a look at - ”

But before Bruce can mime lifting his shirt, Clint shakes his head. “Nah. Tasha already took care of it. Actually - ” his teeth scrape over his lower lip “ - I was going to see if you could take a look at my aids?”

_ Tasha.  _ That’s who she is to Clint. Not Natasha Romanoff or Natalia Romanova or the Black Widow.  _ Tasha.  _ “That’s - that’s really Tony’s department,” Bruce says clumsily.

Clint circles the lab table where he’d lain unconscious hours earlier, fingers skimming the edge. “You know where he’s hiding?”

“Tony?”  _ Downstairs, tinkering in his father’s lab. _ “Haven’t seen him.” 

“Well - ” Clint’s hand closes into a fist, and he raps his knuckles once on the smooth tabletop “ - if he surfaces, let him know I’m looking for him.”

Bruce is a scientist. Not a doctor. Not an engineer.  _ “If you want,” _ he blurts, a furious blush rising to his cheeks, “I can take a look. If you want.”

Clint’s already popped out a hearing aid. “Keeps shocking me,” he says, sliding the device to Bruce.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., run diagnostics.” Bruce’s eyes flicker apologetically as Clint rubs his ear. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“OK.” There’s a pause. “Been deaf a long time, though.”

Bruce’s head jerks up.  _ Huh.  _ He’d been surprised reading Clint’s file on the helicarrier to learn the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had hearing loss. But he’d assumed it was only partial, not profound. “That’s not - ” Bruce shakes his head. Suddenly he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for. “I’m sure you’re eager for us to reattach your comms piece, that’s all.”

Clint shrugs.

It occurs to Bruce this is the closest he’s come to having a conversation with Clint. He’d sat next to Clint at the shawarma joint, but he’d been too exhausted after transforming back to say much. Though he hadn’t been the only one. Clint had sat with his leg propped up on Natasha’s chair, seemingly lost in thought.

_ Oh. _

How’d he miss that? 

“My scan indicates a loose wire in the battery compartment,” says J.A.R.V.I.S., which should be easy enough to fix. At any rate, it gives Bruce something to think about besides Natasha. His stomach churns.

“Here,” he mumbles when he’s done. “Do you, uh, need me to do the other one?”

Clint pops the hearing aid back in. “Nope. Thanks, Bruce.”

He’s wearing the same New York School for the Deaf shirt Natasha had on the night before. Bruce has to tamp down the urge to sweep everything off his workspace, which only makes him feel worse. “You’re welcome.”

*

“Tony, would you just - ” Pepper’s arm crosses her body, hand reaching for the closed fist resting on her hip bone. “You’re acting like I was screening my calls. I wasn’t. I was glued to the TV. I was  _ worried _ about you.”

“You didn’t pick up,” Tony says stubbornly, making a final adjustment to the leg he’d stripped off the prototype Mach IX suit for Sousa to use. “If you were so worried, you could have picked up the phone.”

“Yes, I should have,” Pepper concedes. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you, Tony. But I’m not sure how you expect me to know what you feel when you don’t tell me.”

Tony props up the red, white and blue prosthesis - his response to J.A.R.V.I.S. suggesting their time might be better spent tweaking the muscle-computer interface had been, “Paint the leg, J.A.R.V.I.S.” - and turns to Pepper. “How am I supposed to tell you  _ when you don’t pick up your phone?”  _ he retorts.

Pepper throws her hands up in exasperation. “What do you want me to say, Tony? What do you want me to  _ do? _ Go back in time? I can. I will. I’ll even answer the phone this time. Is that what you want?” Her chest heaves.

Tony waits. Any second now she’ll start apologizing.  _ Three, two, one ... _

Only Pepper isn’t Tony’s mousy assistant anymore. She’s the CEO of Stark Industries. “No,” Tony calls over his shoulder, “don’t apologize. Ruthless is a good look on you.”

“Tony - ”

But while Pepper might not be done haranguing him about New York, Tony’s done listening. He carries the Stark prosthesis upstairs to his own lab, where Bruce is measuring Sousa’s leg yet again. 

“You know,” Tony quips in an effort to distract the two men, “I have rules about who’s allowed to be pantless in my lab. Me. Pepper. Not you.”

And he injects three sensors into Sousa’s scarred flesh in rapid succession.

It’s actually Bruce who yelps in surprise.  _ “Tony,”  _ he hisses, “I thought we agreed - ”

“We didn’t disagree,” says Tony. “You said, ‘I think a microprocessor knee with a modified ischial ramus containment socket could work.’ I said, ‘It could.’ Then I decided to ignore your idea and pursue mine. This is going to pinch,” he warns Sousa, who grimaces as the prosthesis clamps onto his thigh. “Magnets,” Tony explains. “Part of the muscle-computer interface. The sensors I just implanted in your leg are capable of ‘talking’ to the prosthesis. Muscle memory controls the knee. Same goes for the ankle.”

To his credit, Sousa gamely slides off the table, though it’s plain he’s shifting his weight to his sound leg. Before he can grab his crutch, Tony snatches it from him. 

“Nope,” says the billionaire. “Try it without.”

Sousa takes a tentative step. Then another. And another. His gait’s off, Tony notices. He swears under his breath.  _ Even Bruce knew to check his measurements. That knee needs to come down another millimeter or two, and it’s too late to change now. _

How could he be so stupid?

But Sousa, now on the other side of the lab, doesn’t seem to share Tony’s concerns. “I have no idea how you did it,” he’s saying, “but thank you, Tony, truly.” He grins. “Wait until Peggy sees.”

_ You did it. You made Peggy Carter’s husband walk.  _ Even his father hadn’t managed that. So why is Tony still plagued with doubt?

*

“Oh, I like this one,” says Peggy, examining the gun Natasha hands her. It’s slightly bigger than the pistol she’d taken on patrol, but still lighter than her Walther PPK. “May I carry it tonight?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. standard-issue,” says Natasha, but she surprises Peggy by taking the weapon back. “No guns.”

“What do you mean, no guns?”

Natasha shrugs. “No guns,” she repeats. Peggy puts her hands on her hips. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent rolls her eyes. “Look, California has strict gun laws. If either of you gets caught trying to smuggle a firearm into the venue, you’ll undoubtedly get hauled in for questioning. I try to avoid having to bust people out of prison, so no, you can’t carry.”

She has a point. Doesn’t stop Peggy from demanding, “So you’ll also be going in unarmed?”

“I’m a government agent,” Natasha says with a shrug. “Since we’re not on official S.H.I.E.L.D. business, I’d rather not flash my badge if I don’t have to, but I certainly will if it means not getting carted off to jail.”

Peggy’s still not convinced.

Natasha sighs. “Look, if you really want a gun, I’ll give you one of mine once we’re in. But you’ll lose plausible deniability if you’re caught with a gun and an earpiece. Better to snoop unarmed. Clint’ll have eyes on the building if anything comes up.”

“Fine,” says Peggy, gritting her teeth. She’d dislike the idea of relying on an injured agent with a ranged weapon for backup even if she weren’t pregnant, but she’s not about to disclose her condition to Natasha.

The door opens, and in walks Daniel.

_ “Oh,”  _ says Peggy after several seconds, when she realizes he’s without his crutch. “But how - ”

She barely has a chance to register what’s happening before her husband sweeps her into a kiss. He’s never done so before.  _ Well, no,  _ Peggy thinks, slightly dazed.  _ He wouldn’t have been able to. _

“Do you know,” Daniel asks, her weight resting comfortably on his arm, “how long I’ve wanted to do that?” He gives Peggy a quick peck on the lips before righting her. He reddens when he sees Natasha smirking. “Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha cracks her gum.

“Well, let’s see what you have there,” Peggy says briskly, hoping to conceal her own furious blush. 

Daniel hikes his trouser leg to reveal a sleek red, white and blue prosthesis stamped with the words, “Stark Industries.”

It’s not that she doesn’t trust Howard’s son ... it’s that she doesn’t trust Howard’s son. Peggy hums. “Tony built this?” 

“Pulled it off one of the Iron Man suits,” says Daniel. He shifts his weight. It’s so fluid, so natural, that Peggy’s immediately suspicious.

She circles him. “It’s comfortable?” she asks, picking a small blade off the table. After all, Natasha hadn’t said anything about knives. 

Daniel’s brows form a straight line as he nods. “Pretty comfortable,” he says.

Peggy fumbles the knife. It’s intentional, and she thinks Natasha knows it. But instead of letting it clatter to the floor, Daniel lunges right, effortlessly bending his knee.

Even he looks surprised when he catches the knife.

“Daniel Sousa, what have you allowed Tony Stark to do to you?” Peggy demands.

“It’s nothing, Peg,” Daniel mutters out of the corner of his mouth, eyeing Natasha. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?” Peggy repeats, rounding on her husband. “Are we not acquainted with the same Howard Stark?”

“But Howard didn’t design it,” Daniel points out. “Tony did.”

Peggy purses her lips. She knows, years ago, Howard had promised to help Daniel with his leg. He never did. “All right,” Peggy says, lifting her chin. She realizes too late the angle’s changed, and her kiss lands on his jaw. 

Daniel smirks.

And Peggy finds herself doing something she hasn’t done in years: rising to her toes to kiss a man. “I should go get ready, Mr. Sousa,” she says, letting her lips linger before starting for the door. 

She pretends not to hear Natasha ask, “So, you want to try out that leg?” followed by the sound of Daniel’s feet being swept out from under him. 

Peggy smacks into Pepper, a long, black dress slung over her arm.

“It should fit you,” Pepper says wearily. Her eyes are rimmed in red, Peggy notices. “You’re really doing this?”

“I am,” Peggy confirms.

She expects Pepper to try one more time to talk her out of going. But all she does is hand Peggy the gown. “Daniel’s uniform is already in your room.” She pauses. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

*

The last time Daniel wore a uniform, he’d gotten a standing ovation when he walked into the diner. After that, he’d folded up his Class A’s and shoved them to the back of his closet, never to be worn again.

This uniform, the uniform Pepper had secured for him, doesn’t look like his dress greens. For starters, it’s blue. But the stiff, rigid fabric feels the same, and when he looks in the mirror, he’s Sergeant Sousa again.  _ Expendable. _ Daniel swallows, reminds himself putting on the uniform doesn’t unmake the man he’s become. He’s still Daniel Sousa, West Coast Bureau Chief of the SSR, husband to Peggy Carter.

“Zip me?”

Daniel’s eyes sweep over the nameplate, over the medals, one more time. Out of habit, he starts to reach for his crutch, before he remembers he left it in the lab. Peggy has her back to him, the gown she’s wearing long and black and clinging to her every curve. “No brassiere?” he asks, voice a little husky. Maybe he has to force the zipper where he normally wouldn’t, but it doesn’t change the fact his wife is the loveliest creature he’s ever seen. “Peggy,” he says, hands on her waist as she twists to face him, “you look like - ” he’s not fully prepared for the plunging neckline “ - a million bucks.”

“Howard would say you’ve just insulted me,” says Peggy with an amused smile. “Mmm,” she murmurs, letting him trail a line of kisses along her jaw. She pushes him away, however, when he nips at her earlobe. “None of that,” she scolds, though then her breath ghosts his ear, “but you may undress me later.”

Daniel about trips for reasons that have nothing to do with his new prosthesis.

“Oh,” says Peggy innocently, smoothing his collar, “Pepper even got the medals right.”

He snorts, clasping her hands in his. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that.”

She nudges his chin up. “My eyes are up here, Sergeant.”

Then she grabs his tie and drags him in for a bruising kiss.

They’re both breathing heavily when they break apart. “You’re killing me, Peg,” Daniel says. If she keeps it up, he’ll be tenting his pants in no time.

_ “Good.” _ She draws him in one more time, brushing his lips lightly with hers, then releases him. “Now look smart.”

Daniel’s going to need a minute.

He’s expecting Steve to be dressed like him, but when they get downstairs, the supersoldier is clad in the more familiar dress greens. “The organizers insisted,” says Pepper, pinning medals to Steve’s chest. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s fine, Pepper - ” his voice hitches when he sees them “ - really.”

Daniel knows better than most how it feels to have Peggy take your breath away, but he’s not exactly a fan of how Captain America is looking at his wife. At least, not until Natasha motions for him to wipe his cheek. “You’ve got a bit of lipstick, there.” She’s in black, too, but the thigh-high slit makes her dress even less modest than Peggy’s. She checks her thigh holster and straightens her back, breasts on prominent display. “See something you like, Sarge?”

Daniel coughs. “You look very nice, Agent Romanoff,” he manages.

“Good answer,” Peggy purrs into his ear, which doesn’t stop Daniel’s face from lighting up. Natasha smirks.

“Don’t worry,” Clint tells Daniel, clapping him on the back, “she has that effect on everyone.” Clint doesn’t bother to hide the fact he’s checking out the Black Widow. His eyes rake over her, and he whistles. “Lookin’ good, Nat.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s something genuine about the way she says, “Thanks.”

Steve clears his throat. “Should we go over the plan one more time?”

It’s simple enough: Steve will mingle with the other guests while Natasha, attending as his date, secures the perimeter. Enter Peggy and Daniel. They’ll be posing as themselves, Sergeant Sousa and his wife, Margaret, who works for Stark Industries. Get in, get the Zero Matter, get out.

“No crutch,” Clint says casually.

“Oh, yeah,” says Daniel, hiking his pant leg to show off the red, white and blue Stark prosthesis. “Tony figured it out.” Immediately, his eyes scan for the billionaire, but Pepper shakes her head.

“Down in his lab,” she says.

Daniel hadn’t even realized Bruce was in the room until his head pops up over the sofa. “He’s not going with you guys?”

“He’d only attract attention,” says Natasha as she stashes yet another blade on her person. To Clint, she says, “You should change.”

Clint groans. “C’mon, Nat,” he pleads, “it’s bad enough all you’ll let me do is drive you around. I’m not putting on the penguin suit.”

Ten minutes later, he returns in an ill-fitting tuxedo. “It’s too tight,” he complains. 

“You say that about every shirt,” says Natasha, though in Clint’s defense the jacket does appear to be straining over his biceps. She places both hands on his back and gives him a little shove toward the garage. “Move.”

Daniel feels Peggy’s hand slide over his elbow. “How’s it feel to walk on the arm of a guy with two legs for a change?” he whispers, navigating the stairs with ease.

“I’m happy you’re happy,” his wife murmurs.

Daniel stops short. If he’d tried that with his old leg, he’d have knocked them both over. “Peg, what’s wrong?”

She fusses with his tie. “I just ... want you to keep in mind why we’re doing this. We have to go back, Daniel.” She doesn’t outright say he can’t keep the Stark prosthesis, but it’s written all over her face.

“’Course we do,” Daniel agrees, and he sneaks a chaste kiss because they’re behind the rest of the group. “One dance, though. Can I have one dance?”

Peggy nods. “One dance.”

Daniel pretends not to see Steve’s pained expression. He’s done apologizing for being totally, completely, madly in love with his wife.

*

Natasha’s about to scoot out of the limo when Clint’s hand closes around her wrist. She glances down, then back up, gives him her best  _ you know I’ve killed men for less, you were there _ look.

“Hey,” he says, “be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“No,” Clint corrects, “I always have your back. I can’t have your back tonight, so just ... be careful.” His eyes flicker to her cleavage, threatening as always to spill out. “I mean, it’d be a shame if anything happened to that dress.”

The corner of Natasha’s mouth twists up. “You mean before you rip it off later?” She doesn’t wait for a response, just hitches up her dress so she can step out of the limo. She grabs Steve’s arm. “If anyone asks ... ”

“We work together in the legal department at Stark Industries,” says Peggy automatically in a breezy American accent as Daniel slides an arm around her waist. Natasha feels Steve tense. “My husband lost his leg in Afghanistan.”

“Our convoy hit an IED, just outside Kabul,” Daniel supplies. “Lucky to be alive.”

_ Good,  _ Natasha thinks. Their answers don’t sound rehearsed. “And Steve?” she prompts.

“Here to support our wounded veterans,” he says in a clipped tone that surprisingly works. Natasha’s never asked how it felt to wake up in a world just as chaotic, just as violent, as the one he left, but she thinks she knows the answer.

The whispering begins.

“Is that - ”

“Is Captain America  _ here?” _

“Who’s the girl?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha spots Senator Boynton, tall, flinty, obviously unamused. Then again, the senator believes Captain America should be locked in the Fridge, not mingling at a cocktail reception. Natasha watches as Boynton leans over and whispers in the ear of his security chief. The man nods, slipping into the crowd.

Her comms piece clicks on. “Did you catch that?” Natasha whips her head around. How is Clint already in position? “Face it, Romanoff, I’m just that good.” He chuckles into her ear. “Heads up, the senator from New York just sent his trained monkey ‘to secure the sample.’ It’s here, Nat.”

Of course, she can’t break character, so she keeps a dazzling smile plastered on her face. “Natalie Rushman,” she tells the president of the charity whose party they’re crashing. “I work for Mr. Stark. I’m sure you’re familiar with the work of our biomedical division? We’d like to bring a prosthesis to market based on Iron Man technology. In fact, Sergeant Sousa here is testing one of our prototypes.”

“No kidding. Below knee?” 

Daniel shakes his head. “Above, actually.” He obligingly takes a few steps. “I wasn’t having much success with the leg the VA gave me, so Margaret took it upon herself to ask Ms. Potts if there was anything Stark Industries could do for me.”

“Where would we be without our wives?”

Inside, the party’s just getting started. Steve’s waylaid immediately, but it gives Natasha a chance to check in with Clint. “What’s it look like outside?” She watches Daniel sidle up to the bar, order a beer for himself and champagne for his wife. It’s a benign request, not the kind that’ll draw attention the way telling the bartender the lady will have a whisky neat would. Consider Natasha impressed.

Clint’s voice crackles in his ear. “OK, three exits, all covered by at least two guards. You’ve got four at the west doors. Not really a surprise. How’s the party? Any cocktail weenies? I love - ”

Natasha cuts him off. “I know,” she says, but she’s smiling. 

Though, Peggy’s on the move, and that’s Natasha’s cue. She grabs a fistful of her dress and marches up the stairs after Peggy, sliding into the women’s bathroom behind her. 

“Shouldn’t you be - ”

“Change of plans,” Natasha interjects. “Go dance with Steve. I’m going after the containment case.”

Peggy looks aghast. “That’s not the plan,” she says, but her nerves are on display for anyone to see. She keeps touching her wedding band with her thumb.

Natasha just stares fixedly at Peggy’s abdomen, dress straining at the seams. “You never should have come on this mission.”

“And what am I supposed to tell Daniel?” Peggy wants to know.

“I’ll handle it,” Natasha promises. She’d expected more of a fight, honestly. Natasha holds out her hand. “Give me your wedding ring.”

“What? No!”

“You can’t wear it and dance with Captain America,” Natasha points out. “You’d cause a scandal.”

Peggy sighs. “Oh, fine.” It takes her a minute to wrench her rings from her swollen finger. Natasha smirks. Peggy glares at the Russian assassin. “Please don’t say anything to Daniel about - ” she covers the slight swell of her abdomen with her left hand.

Natasha doesn’t plan to, but she leaves without saying another word. She finds Peggy’s husband at the bar, making small talk with an airman. “There you are!” she sings, slinging her left hand over Daniel’s shoulder so he’ll see Peggy’s ring. She kisses his cheek as she reaches for champagne. Her lips brush his ear. “Change of plans.”

“You must be Margaret,” says the airman, extending his hand. “Daniel was just telling me about his better half. The name’s Sam, Sam Wilson, 58th Rescue Squadron.”

Natasha shakes his hand, committing his name to memory in case she has to mop this up later. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but - ” she quickly scans the room for a recognizable face “  - Undersecretary Miller’s asking about your leg, honey.”

Sam chuckles. “Yeah, yeah, I see how I rate. Cheers, man.” He clinks his glass to Daniel’s.

“Where’s Peggy?” Daniel demands as soon as they’re out of earshot. “Is she OK? Is she - ”

“Relax,” says Natasha, but Daniel doesn’t, probably because his wife’s just followed Captain America out onto the dance floor. “See that guy over there? Couple years back, he had some information S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted. Let’s just say he might remember me.”

To Daniel’s credit, he follows Natasha up the stairs. “Twelve o’clock,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “That guy’s part of the senator’s security detail.”

“Kiss me,” Natasha orders. Before Daniel can protest, she’s put a hand on either side of his face and dragged him down for a kiss. His lips part. His arms automatically circle her waist. It’s a ruse she and Clint have used hundreds of times, and she can hear him laughing in her ear.

The man passes without giving them a second glance.

Natasha breaks off the kiss. “Not bad, Chief,” she says silkily.

Daniel looks horrified. “I’m  _ married.” _

“Yeah, to me,” says Natasha, wiggling her left hand so Peggy’s ring is on prominent display. “You should see your face.”

“You just kissed me!”

“You kissed me back,” Natasha points out.

Daniel’s entire face is flushed. “You’re not going to tell Peggy, are you?” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I’ll tell Peggy.”

“Come on,” says Natasha as she hikes up her dress. “Zero Matter’s this way.” She takes off.

Daniel lumbers after her. “It’s here? You’re sure?”

“Clint saw Boynton tell one of his goons to secure the sample. What? He reads lips.” Daniel still looks incredulous. “He’s called Hawkeye for a reason. Left or right?”

“Left.”

The hallway leads right to the library. Only one way in, only one way out. Daniel spots Natasha as she slips into the room. She has to hand it to him: in another time, with the right technology, he’d have made a hell of a field agent. “Room’s clear,” she calls. “I can stand guard if you want to take a look around for this thing.”

“The containment case?”

Natasha nods, reaching up her skirt for one of the Glocks. “You’re the one who knows what it looks like.”

But ten minutes later, Daniel hasn’t turned anything up. “Unless there’s some kind of - ” his fingers brush over a set of encyclopedias “ - catch.” He gives one of the volumes a little tug, and the bookshelf begins to move. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“Neither can I,” says Natasha. “Which one?”

Before he can answer, Clint says, “Heads up, Nat. There’s a pair of Boynton’s goons headed your way.”

Inside the secret room, there’s a heavy old desk with three drawers and a broken leg. “Clint says to expect company.”

Daniel’s already picking the lock. “Go,” he tells her. “I’ll get this.”

“You sure?”  _ Better get moving, Natasha.  _ She can hear footsteps in the hallway.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Daniel, yanking one of the drawers open and coughing as dust scatters everywhere. “This is Howard’s handwriting, all right. Go.”

Natasha tosses him the gun. “Just in case,” she says. She squares her shoulders, adjusts her décolletage and runs right into the men Clint warned her about. She gives them a sultry smile. “Well, hello, boys.”

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” one of them growls.

She frowns. “I’m not?”

“Two more on their way,” says Clint. “I repeat, two more on their way. Get out of there, Tasha. Get - ”

Natasha ducks the first punch and answers with one of her own.

*

“Good to see you, Captain,” says a man with a large mustache, clapping Steve on the back, “glad to have you home.”

“Thanks.” Usually he’d try to throw in a “senator” or a “colonel” or a “sir,” but he hadn’t caught the man’s name. He poses for a picture with a congresswoman from California. He shakes the governor’s hand. He feels like he’s selling war bonds again. He feels like some monkey on parade. 

“You always hated this part,” says Peggy sympathetically, suddenly materializing at his side. Her dress leaves a little more to the imagination than Natasha’s, but it’s still sleek, still sheer, and Steve hasn’t forgotten how those curves felt beneath his hands, back when he was allowed to slide them all over her body.

He swallows the lump that rises in his throat. “Where’s Nat?” he asks. What he really wants to know is if they’re already in trouble. He casts a sidelong glance at the bar, where a minute earlier Daniel’d been sipping a beer and chatting with a trim, uniformed black man. The pilot’s still there, but Peggy’s husband is nowhere to be seen. Steve tenses. “Peggy - ”

“Change of plans,” she informs him. “Agent Romanoff thought she might have been made, so she went with Daniel to locate the Zero Matter and sent me to dance with you.” Peggy’s red lips open in the barest of smiles. “And it’s Margaret tonight, don’t forget.”

“You hate being called Margaret,” Steve points out. “I don’t really ... dance.”

“It’s easy enough,” says Peggy, and Steve wonders if it’s as hard for her to extend her hand as it is for him to take it. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

“This feels wrong,” he tells her. “You’re someone’s wife.”

“For the mission, Captain,” Peggy reminds him. He takes a deep breath before putting a hand on her waist. A big band tune begins to play, no doubt because he’s leading a pretty dame out to the dance floor. They begin to sway. “See?” she teases. “This isn’t so bad with the right partner.”

Steve shakes his head. “No.”

“No? No, you’re agreeing with me, or no, it’s awful, in which case I’m not above standing on your foot, Steve Rogers.”

What’s awful is having her in his arms again and not being able to look, to touch, to taste to his heart’s content. She’s there in the flesh, not as young as she was but nowhere near as old as she is, but not his. “No, I’m not the right partner.” Steve’s chest tightens. “I’m glad you found Daniel, Peg. I really am. He’s a good man. You deserve that.”

“Steve,” she says with a sigh.

It’s not as hard as he thought it’d be, spinning her. She twirls gracefully and comes back to him. “It’s OK, Peggy.” He’s not, but he will be. “I understand. You had to move on. You had to live your life. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

Peggy stops mid-step. “Come back with us.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Steve says sadly. 

“Of course you can,” she insists. “Just ... promise the Avengers you’ll show up for the Battle of New York.”

“I’ll circle it on my calendar.”

“Steve, I’m not joking. Howard figured out how to send us here - ” he’s not sure if she hears his muttered “accidentally” or just chooses to ignore it “ - surely he can do the same for you.”

Steve nods once, twice, can’t quite believe he’s about to turn her down. “You know, last week I ordered a pizza to a motel room in Utah. Middle of the night, and they just brought me a pie. Food’s definitely improved since the ’40s. And cars, Peggy. Just wait until you drive one with power steering. You won’t hate it so much. I can listen to a Dodgers game anywhere, which is good because they don’t play in Brooklyn anymore.”

“Don’t you dare tell Daniel. He’ll be devastated.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked the guy.” Steve closes his eyes, resting his forehead on hers. “I lost Bucky before I ever went into the ice. You’re it, Peggy. You’re all I have left.”

“What about Howard? What about the Howling Commandos? Dum Dum would be overjoyed to see you again, not to mention - ” she breaks off abruptly. 

“Peggy, it’s OK. I know about Morita and Falsworth. S.H.I.E.L.D. let me read their files.” He doesn’t tell her time’s taken care of the rest of their tac team. “Look, I’m trying to tell you the future’s not so bad. I’ll be happy here. I think.”

Steve feels a tap on his shoulder. It’s a white-haired, well-decorated general and his wife. “Captain Rogers,” he says, pumping Steve’s arm, “can’t thank you enough for being here tonight.”

Steve forces a smile. “Anything to support the troops, sir.”

“Well, not that you will, but if you do get tired of dancing with this beautiful young lady - ” his wink isn’t subtle “ - say hi to the soldiers, will you? Got a lot of men here tonight who survived some pretty serious injuries. Bet it’d mean a lot to them to meet Captain America.”

Steve remembers getting booed offstage by the 107th, and he doubts it. “Of course, General. I’m sure Margaret here won’t mind sitting for a few songs.”

The general’s wife clasps Peggy’s hands in her own. “You’re positively glowing, dear.”

And they’re gone.

There’s a furious blush rising on Peggy’s cheeks, but it takes Steve a second to work out what the general’s wife had meant by “glowing.” It’s not until Peggy’s hand drops to her belly that he figures it out.  _ Peggy’s pregnant. She’s pregnant with Daniel’s child. _ No wonder she’s down here dancing with him, out of the line of fire. 

Steve swallows the lump in his throat. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

“You can’t tell Daniel,” Peggy blurts. She bites her lip. “He ... he doesn’t know yet. The timing, well, it hasn’t been right.”

“Oh,” says Steve, and that makes sense. Because even a supportive husband would balk at his pregnant wife going on dangerous missions. Hell, Steve doesn’t like the fact that Peggy’s here right now. “Well, let’s - ”

He’s interrupted by a body falling over the balcony, crash-landing amidst the partygoers. Steve grabs Peggy’s hand. “Just stay behind me for once,” he begs. “Can you do that?”

Peggy nods.

They dash up the spiral stairs, away from the pandemonium on the dance floor. “Go right,” calls Peggy. “That’s where I’d engage if I were Agent Romanoff.”

Sure enough, they arrive just in time to see Natasha knee a man twice her size in the balls before jabbing into the fleshy part of his neck with her elbow. Down he goes. Steve wishes he had his shield, but he makes do with his fists. He socks one guy in the jaw, grabs another by the back of his jacket and flings him headfirst into the wall. The man groans but doesn’t stir.

Peggy, blessedly, hangs back.

“Is that all of them?” Steve asks, wincing as Natasha stomps on one of them with a stiletto. He quickly averts his eyes as she adjusts the top of her dress.

“Should be.”

_ Bang. _

Single gunshot, west end of the house.

Peggy blanches.  _ “Daniel,”  _ she whispers.

And she’s dashed off before Steve or Natasha can stop her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Tony makes the “partners” joke. Thanks, Tumblr.
> 
> As always, this wouldn’t have happened without my two ~~enablers~~ best friends, [frommybookbook](http://frommybookbook.tumblr.com/) and [lazaefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazaefair), who at one point I made come sit on my bed and give me feedback on every. single. sentence. in a particularly difficult scene. Lots of love, too, for [agent-aurelie](http://agent-aurelie.tumblr.com/) and [amara-lorena](http://amara-lorena.tumblr.com), who are far too kind and complimentary. 
> 
> Credit to [peonymoss](http://peonymoss.tumblr.com), whose tags on [this post](http://amara-lorena.tumblr.com/post/145052830667/capnamvrica-laylainalaska-nwcostumer) inspired Peggy’s line about getting on with Steve like a house on fire.
> 
> (And, you know, to [dusty1918](http://dusty1918.tumblr.com) for digging up [this visual](http://laylainalaska.tumblr.com/post/145847327784/nwcostumer-dusty1918-just-watched-envers-ep) of Enver in uniform.)
> 
> In case you were wondering: here’s [Peggy’s dress](http://www.vettri.net/gallery/celeb/hayley_atwell/Jameson-Empire-Awards-2015/Hayley_Atwell_JEA-2015_Vettri.Net-23.jpg), and here's [Nat’s](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2013/09/03/article-2410334-1B9AA160000005DC-480_640x948.jpg).
> 
> SORRY NOT SORRY I’M SUCH CLINTASHA TRASH.
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr!](http://em2mb.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

_Just stay behind me for once._

Steve’s words echo in Peggy’s ears as she takes off, desperate to find Daniel. It’s the last thing she should be doing, charging unarmed and pregnant into the line of fire. She should hang back for the baby’s sake. She should let someone else handle this one.

But it’s her husband whose life is on the line.

 _This must be how Daniel feels,_ Peggy thinks as she runs, clutching a fistful of long, black gown, _when you rush in half-cocked._ There’s another bang. Why oh why hadn’t she brought a gun?

She skids to a stop at the end of the corridor, trying to recall which way to turn and drawing a blank. Tears of frustration well in Peggy’s eyes. She’d spent the better part of an hour poring over the blueprints with Daniel, committing every nook and cranny to memory. She can still feel his hand on the small of her back.

It’s the ghost of his touch that does it. Left, she needs to go left. Peggy takes a hard turn and sprints down the hall in the direction of the library. With a little luck, that’s where Daniel will be, unharmed. Only the smell of gunpowder and blood isn’t exactly reassuring. Peggy’s stomach turns. They’re here to steal back the Zero Matter so they can return to 1949, together. But what if the timeline’s changed? She would still have to go back, even if something happens to Daniel. It’s a thought almost too horrible to bear.

She’s at the door before she realizes Steve and Natasha are no longer in pursuit. That’s when Peggy hears a grunt, followed by a thud. The Avengers have clearly engaged. She won’t have backup.

Peggy tiptoes gingerly into the room and almost trips over a security guard with a head wound. She grounds her fist into the carpet to steady herself, pressing two fingers to his fat neck. His pulse is weak. He won’t be springing up anytime soon. Peggy straightens. On the far side of the room, there’s a bookcase slightly askew.

Her fingers trace the titles, searching for any anomalies. _That one._ Peggy gives an old anthology of Greek myth a tug. The bookcase swings slowly open.

And Peggy finds herself staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Jesus, Peg,” says Daniel, looking only slightly worse for wear, “you scared me.” He pockets the gun, one of Natasha’s, really too small for his grip. His brow furrows. “Peggy, what’s wrong?”

 _What’s wrong_ is the bruise starting to rise along his jaw. _What’s wrong_ is the pistol-whipped assailant out cold on the ground next to her husband. _What’s wrong_ is the man propped against the wall, bleeding out from two gunshot wounds. _What’s wrong_ is Daniel just pulled a gun on her.

Peggy flings herself into his arms.

She’s done so before, in his office, in alleyways, in factories-turned-hideouts after a raid. But this time, he doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t collapse against a wall, or into the nearest chair. Daniel catches her with a surety she can feel in his hands on her waist and his tongue in her mouth. He’s warmth and reassurance at a time Peggy needs it most. With Daniel, she’s certain she can do anything. She breaks the kiss. She’s about to grab her husband’s hand and place it on her belly when Natasha clears her throat behind them.

“You’re not out of danger yet,” says the spy, though the corners of her mouth curl up as she surveys Daniel’s handiwork. “Now get out of here before anyone realizes you were here.” She smacks his well-decorated chest with an open palm, and Peggy knows that move even if she isn’t sure what Natasha’s just slipped in Daniel’s breast pocket. “Go on.”

For once, Peggy lets her husband lead.

*

“And who’d you say you were with again, Miss - ”

 _“Agent,”_ Natasha corrects. “Agent Romanoff.”

The flustered Los Angeles County deputy lifts his arm, using his wrist to wipe sweat from his damp brow. “Right,” he murmurs, flipping through his notepad, beady little eyes sneaking glances at her cleavage. “Agent Romanoff of - ”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” she supplies, not bothering to spell it out. Eventually he’ll stop asking her questions and turn to one of the roaming FBI agents for help. She grabs a passing deputy’s arm because he looks like he might be interested in the containment case. “Unh uh,” she admonishes, “that’s property of my employer, not yours.”

He doesn’t challenge her, probably because Natasha’s fingers are threatening to slip into a compliance hold. She lets go, but only after she spots a short, stocky man in a black suit, one finger behind his ear, talking to someone she can’t see. S.H.I.E.L.D., by the looks of him.

Still, she takes the sample of Zero Matter with her, just in case. “Agent Romanoff,” she says, sticking out her hand.

Suit’s eyes widen - so her reputation _does_ precede her - but to his credit, he recovers quickly. “Agent Koenig,” he says as they shake. He could teach Deputy Lecherous a thing or two, because he drops his hands in front of him and maintains a respectful gaze despite her breasts being at eye level. “What seems to be the problem, Agent Romanoff?”

Natasha jerks her head in the direction of one of Senator Boynton's goons, currently being loaded onto a stretcher. There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing the injured man’s hands zip-tied to a backboard. “I had reason to suspect the senator hired private security to steal government property from a decommissioned military base.” She holds up the containment case. “Turns out, I was right.”

The other spy arches an eyebrow. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Project C.H.R.O.N.O.S., would it?”

“Project - ” Natasha’s eyes narrow. _Damn S.H.I.E.L.D. and its acronyms._ “Did Fury send you?” she demands.

But all Koenig does is smile. “I’ll handle it from here, Agent Romanoff,” he promises, ushering her out of the library, now teeming with officers from a dozen different law enforcement agencies. “Listen up, folks. My name is - ”

Fury’s voice crackles in Natasha’s ear. “It stands for Chronological History Recompletion Operation Not Occurring Spontaneously,” he says as she kicks off her shoes. “Congratulations, Agent Romanoff. You didn’t fuck this one up.”

Irritated, she disconnects her comms piece and kicks off her shoes, carrying them in one hand and the containment case in the other as she tromps out of the mansion. The crowd’s starting to clear, so it’s easy to spot Clint, leaning against the limo.

“Just one problem,” he says, reaching for the door handle, _“I_ waterboarded that guy.”

It takes Natasha a second to realize he means the diplomat she’d told Daniel could make her. Clint opens the door for her. Inside the limo, Peggy’s not so much sitting next to Daniel as curled into his side, head on his shoulder. Steve seems steadfast in his determination not to make eye contact with her or anyone else. Clint offers Natasha his hand, which she takes. She feels him squeeze her fingers.

No explanation needed.

*

By the time he’s parking the limo outside Stark’s mansion, Clint’s already moved on to the next mission. This one’s not S.H.I.E.L.D.-sanctioned, either, but it should be a little easier to pull off. After all, there’s only one objective, and it’s to get Natasha out of that dress.

_Your mission, should you choose to accept ..._

Fortunately for Clint, Natasha meets his arched eyebrow with a glance toward the stairs of her own. “You got this?” she asks, thrusting the containment case in Daniel’s general direction. Clint’s not sure his partner even waits for a nod.

Natasha’s back hits the door with a little _thud_ as Clint’s hands encircle her slim waist. She locks her wrists behind his neck for balance as she kicks off one impossibly high heel, then the other, completely changing the angle of their kiss. Fuck, he always forgets how _short_ she is.

Clint has no idea if he actually says this or if Natasha just knows him that well by now because she breaks off the kiss with a little tug of her teeth on his lower lip. “I am not,” she says, breath hot.

“You’re fucking tiny,” Clint mutters against her mouth, yanking her toward him with two handfuls of firm ass. He dips his head so he can press open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. He likes how her skin tastes after a mission, that faint hint of salt from her sweat. “So - ” Clint kisses the tender underside of her neck “ - fucking - ” licks a stripe down to her chest _“ - tiny.”_ Natasha hisses when he frees her breasts from the black dress.

Unfortunately, so does he. “Clint?”

“Fine,” he wheezes, clutching his side. Because while he may have probably, OK, _definitely_ just popped a stitch, he’s still staring at the nicest pair of tits he’s ever seen. Clint’s had worse days. He reaches for Natasha’s boobs.

She stops him. “If you’re going to bleed all over me, Barton, we’re not doing this.”

“I’m not - ” he starts indignantly, then follows her gaze to his mangled side, where blood is starting to stain his borrowed white shirt. “Fuck.”

Natasha pats his cheek. “Not tonight, dear,” she says condescendingly. She tucks herself back into the dress - how do women _do_ that? - and holds out her hand. Clint eyes it suspiciously. She rolls her eyes. “Just take it, Clint.”

It’s a little humiliating to be made to hop up onto the counter with his dick still at half-chub, but there’s something comforting about the way Natasha undresses him, lifting onto her toes to kiss him with each layer she pulls off. “You know,” he suggests when she lets her lips linger on his before removing his undershirt, “once you have me bandaged up, I bet I could still bring you to semi-decent orgasm.”

“Semi-decent, huh?” Natasha says playfully, arms encircling his neck. “And what if I’d rather bank future mind-blowing orgasms than risk killing you tonight?”

Clint swallows, wondering if they’re making promises they can’t keep. But fuck if he’s not tired of pretending he doesn’t want more with Natasha. “Yeah,” he agrees, exhaling. “Yeah, I could be down with that.” He thinks about a firefight in Budapest and a straw hut in Bali, her apartment in D.C. and his loft in Bed-Stuy, and yeah, he’s down. He’s _definitely_ down, if the twitch of his dick in his shorts is any indication.

Of course Natasha notices. _Of course._ “Careful,” she warns, scrubbing her hands clean so she can change his bandages, “I think Little Clint heard you.”

“‘Little Clint’?” Clint huffs indignantly. _“‘Little Clint’?_ Never, not once, have I ever called my dick that, Nat,” he complains. “And you know there’s nothing little about - ”

He yelps when Natasha chooses that moment to rip his dressings off.

“Sorry,” she says unapologetically.

Clint’s fingers fumble for the edge of the counter, holding tight to the marble as he fights off a wave of nausea. “Next time, warn a guy,” he pants.

Natasha lifts his chin. “Do I need to get Bruce?” she asks, concern evident in her voice.

Clint shakes his head. “I’m OK,” he insists, cringing inwardly at how weak he sounds. But she must not want to involve Bruce, either, because she reaches for a packet of sterile gauze. His abdominal muscles tense.

Natasha works in silence for a few minutes before asking, “You said the person who did this was pretending to be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent?” He nods. She shakes her head. “That doesn’t sit right with me.”

“C’mon, Nat, you know how it is,” he mutters. He’d had a lot of time inside his own head on the flight to California, and he has to wonder if maybe ... just maybe ... it’s not like S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t big enough, or secretive enough.

“Clint, no,” says Natasha. “If they were trying to kill you, they weren’t S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“You don’t know that,” he says stubbornly. “Natasha, all those people, they died because of - ”

“Loki. They died because of Loki.” Natasha pries his chin up, forcing Clint to look her in the eye. “You didn’t kill anyone. Phil’s death wasn’t your fault.”

“Thirteen people died, Nat.” Friends and fellow agents, including the man who’d recruited Clint off the street. If not for Phil Coulson, where would he be? Probably dead. If S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to make Clint pay for his sins, well, let’s just say he wouldn’t blame whoever signed off on the hit. “How much did you tell Fury?”

“If you’re asking if he knows you’re here, I didn’t tell him.” Natasha tells him everything she knows about Project C.H.R.O.N.O.S., which isn’t much. “But you said it yourself, he was her assistant. I think we have to assume Peggy told him how it went down.”

Clint watches as she tapes down the edge of the bandage. “Hey, uh, I can sleep in here tonight, right?”

Natasha stares at him. “How is that even a question?”

This time, when she offers her hand, Clint takes it. She helps him into a t-shirt _(that used to belong to him)_ and sweatpants _(also once his)_ before crawling into bed. He’s spent so many nights now cooped up in shitty roadside motels without her it’s just habit to reach for the TV remote.

“Sorry,” says Clint, when he realizes what he’s doing. “I know you hate - ”

“No, turn it on,” Natasha says, propping herself up on an elbow as the mattress dips with his added weight. “We both know you want to watch Jon Stewart.”

Clint’s suspicious, but he flips to Comedy Central anyway. That’s when Natasha reaches over to remove his hearing aids. He’s about to protest, but then he sees she’s turned on closed captioning. He drops his head to her chest, and she cards her fingers through his hair. She even chuckles a few times during the opening monologue.

 _Natasha Romanoff,_ Clint thinks sleepily. Who knew?

*

The containment case hits Daniel square in the chest. “You got this?” Natasha asks, not that she waits for an answer before marching Clint up the stairs. Daniel chuckles; he’s well-acquainted with that predatory look. He’s seen it often on Peggy’s face, usually when she’s lowering the blinds and locking his office door. He nudges his wife.

“Now, where’ve I seen that - ” he breaks off when instead of shivering, she tenses. “Peggy?”

His first thought is she must be hurt. He’s only seen her this pale once before, impaled on rebar at the Roxxon plant. But insofar as he can tell, Peggy isn’t bleeding, and she’d been conscious - if quiet - for the drive back to Tony’s. And that’s when it occurs to Daniel that the hurt might be emotional. Just his luck, he gets to apologize for kissing Natasha in front of Captain America.

But before he can open his mouth, his wife blurts, “Is this how you feel?”

It takes Daniel a second to figure out what she’s really asking. “When I’m scared out of my mind you won’t make it back from a dangerous mission?” he guesses.

Peggy nods, her brown eyes fearful. “How do you stand it?” she asks, and her voice cracks. “I thought - I thought I’d lost you. I thought I’d have to go back alone. I thought - ”

“Peggy,” Daniel interrupts, setting aside the containment case so he can grab her shaking hands. “Peggy, listen to me. I know you. I know you’d do anything and everything to get back to me.”

It’s an answer he didn’t know he’d been practicing until that very moment. He thinks about that terrible night, his handkerchief doing next to nothing to stanch the flow of her blood. Thankfully, he hadn’t lost her, but in the days and weeks that followed, he’d had to learn how to send in an agent who was also the woman he loved. He lets Peggy bury her face in his chest. “Daniel,” she says, voice muffled, “I’m so very sorry.”

“You have no reason to be, Peg,” Daniel assures her. He’d meant it when he told Bruce a night earlier he knew who he married. Which, reminds him. He kisses the top of Peggy’s head, slackening his hold just enough to retrieve her rings from his breast pocket. “I almost forgot,” he says sheepishly, sliding first her engagement ring, then her wedding band, onto her finger. “Mrs. Sousa.”

Through her tears, Peggy bats her lashes. “Why, I’m surprised you didn’t get down on one knee, Mr. Sousa.”

The grin slides off Daniel’s face, and he swears under his breath. _“Damn.”_ Talk about a wasted opportunity. “I suppose I should get this down to Tony and Bruce,” he says ruefully, reaching for the containment case.

Peggy wrinkles her nose. “I hate that stuff,” she says with a shudder, and Daniel has to agree. “Shall I come with you?”

“Nah,” says Daniel, preferring to keep the sample of Zero Matter as far from Peggy as possible. Besides, he figures he’ll have to hand over the Stark prosthesis, and he isn’t keen on her finding out he let Tony inject sensors into his leg. He tells himself it’s for the best. He’d needed the Iron Man leg for the mission, of course, but since they successfully retrieved the Zero Matter, there’s no reason for him to keep wearing it.

That’s when he hears the opening trumpet of a big band tune.

Peggy frowns. “Is that - is that James Dorsey?”

It certainly _sounds_ like it. Before Daniel can stop himself, he’s set the containment case on a nearby table and offered her his hand.

“Daniel,” Peggy says, clearly flustered, “is now really the time?”

But having been able to do little more than sway with her at their wedding, Daniel continues to hold out his hand. “It might be our only chance, Peg,” he says softly.

She doesn’t hesitate. She slips her hand in his, letting him pull her into a gentle embrace, her back to his chest. Daniel breathes in her lightly floral shampoo. Had she really only interrupted his shower that morning? It feels like it’s been a lot longer. “Peggy,” he murmurs, “we’re going home.”

He spins her, shifting his weight to his left leg so he’ll be ready to catch her when she comes back. Her long hair spills over his arm as he dips her.

“You don’t know that,” Peggy counters, taking her husband’s hand again. “For all you know, we could be stuck here.”

Daniel hums a few bars and spins her again. He’s danced with other dames to this song, but with Peggy, he really feels it. Jimmy Dorsey begins to croon about love walking in and driving the shadows away. Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel watches Steve slink in and pick up the containment case. “Would that really be so bad?”

Peggy, her back to the supersoldier, looks aghast. “Daniel! We have to go back! Who knows what could happen if we - ”

“Relax, Peggy,” he says, dipping her so he can nod at Steve in acknowledgement. Daniel has a feeling he has the supersoldier to thank for this magic moment. “I’m only teasing.” He draws his wife close and begins to sing to her. _“‘One look and I had found my future at last / One look and I had found a world completely new / When love walked in with you.’”_

“I suppose you’re right,” Peggy concedes when he’s done warbling, though it’s plain to Daniel her heart isn’t really into it. “If for some reason we can’t return, at least we’d have each other.”

Daniel leans in to kiss her. “Believe me, I’m as eager as you are to get home.”

She still looks skeptical. “Even though you’ll have to give up the prosthesis Tony built?”

“That was always part of the deal, Peggy,” he says, dipping her one more time before the song ends.

Peggy doesn’t let go. She tilts her head. “You really are the right partner, aren’t you?” Daniel must look as perplexed as he feels because she laughs. “Just ... something Steve said to me, that’s all.” He wants to ask, but before he can, she tucks her head beneath his chin, and OK, Daniel could get used to being just a little taller.

“Shall I play another?” J.A.R.V.I.S. offers. “Glenn Miller? Bing Crosby?”

To Daniel’s surprise, it’s Peggy who directs J.A.R.V.I.S. to a Benny Goodman song. (“Ah, yes, what an excellent choice,” the butler says, and if the timbre of his voice wasn’t all wrong, Daniel could fool himself into thinking this was just Saturday night at the Jarvises.)

“Dance with me, Daniel,” Peggy demands.

Never one to keep a lady waiting, Daniel spins her around. He loses track of how many songs J.A.R.V.I.S. plays. It’s nothing like waiting in the long stag line at a USO dance to foxtrot with a junior hostess, not with his wife warm and pliant in his arms. But it’s nothing like swaying with Peggy to the radio, either, not with the Stark prosthesis responding as fast as Daniel’s actual limb.

He waits for an uptempo jazz tune to tell her about Natasha’s kiss. Daniel deserves a slap, but the corners of Peggy’s mouth curl into a faint smile. “Did she?” his wife asks. “It wasn’t anything like this, was it?”

She drags him down for the kind of kiss they’ve only ever shared in private, tongue sweeping into his mouth with her usual ferocity. Daniel would chuckle if he’d had time to catch half a breath: even when it’s not a competition, Peggy plays to win. But just this once, Daniel wants to be in charge. He slides his hands down the small of her back, wondering if the brassiere wasn’t the only undergarment she skipped, and _damn,_ if that’s not an intriguing thought.

Daniel’s lips brush Peggy’s as he mutters, “Do you trust me?”

Her kiss is the only answer he needs. He hoists her up, and she gasps, _“Daniel,”_ and he lives for the breathless sound of his name, “what do you think you’re - ”

“Taking you back to our room,” he interrupts, “so I can have my way with you.”

They crash down the hall, knocking a painting askew, but he doesn’t drop her, not even when her hand worms between them and unbuckles his belt.

“P-Peggy,” Daniel splutters. “Don’t you think you should - ”

Of course, she’s never liked being told to wait, which is probably why she shoves a hand down his pants. Daniel has to remind himself he’s carried her this far, what’s another ten feet? He shudders as she palms over his erection. They stagger through the door, and he doesn’t waste any time undressing Peggy. A seam gives way when he tugs too hard at her zipper, and it’s a shame, he thinks, because the gown looked beautiful on her.

“Oh,” says Peggy, _“oh yes,”_ back arching as he lifts one of her breasts to his mouth.

Daniel licks her nipple into a stiff peak, flicking the other between two fingers until it’s just as hard. He drops to his knees, eager to taste her, and pushes the material bunched at her waist the rest of the way down. Peggy steps out of the pool of black organza, kicking off her heels.

It turns out she is wearing panties, just not any kind Daniel’s ever seen. He noses the black lace aside, breathing in the heady scent of her. He loves going down on Peggy, lapping at her soft folds, chasing the little noises she makes. Tonight, he knows she’s close when she lifts her foot off the ground, heel digging into his spine.

 _“Yes,”_ she hisses, “Daniel, right there.”

He’s painfully, achingly hard when he stands, teasing her with the tip of his cock. “Can I?”

Peggy nods. A moment later, he’s pushed his pants down and lifted her onto him. “Oh,” she says, wrapping her legs around him. _“Oh,”_ she says, tilting her pelvis to meet his first thrust. Her mouth falls open, and Daniel sees for the first time her teeth are stained with lipstick where she’s bitten down to keep herself from crying out. There’s going to be a limit on how long he can support her like this, but for now, Daniel’s fingers dig into her round bottom, and he buries himself to the hilt.

Peggy gasps.

So he does it again, this time rattling the door behind her. Vaguely horrified, he asks, “Is that - I’m not being too rough, am I?”

“Don’t you dare stop, Daniel Sousa,” Peggy commands.

He’s not about to argue. “Yes, ma’am,” he agrees, though at the same time he can feel the slipping sensation in his thighs that means he’s close. He thrusts once, twice, three more times before he comes with a groan. He holds Peggy as she shudders her release, then slides out.

She laughs shakily. “How is it,” she asks, “that I’m mostly naked, yet you’re fully clothed?”

Daniel looks down just in time to see her fingers brush the Purple Heart still pinned to his chest. He thinks it could be a coincidence, but he also wonders for the thousandth time if she wouldn’t secretly prefer a man who came back from the war whole. _She married you, didn’t she?_

He clears his throat. “Sorry I ripped your dress,” he says, letting her grip his shoulder as she shucks the delicate undergarment she’d worn beneath it.

“Pepper called it a thong,” Peggy says grimly, proceeding to strip Daniel down to his skivvies. She eyes the Stark prosthesis. “I don’t know if you should sleep in it.”

But since he’s not entirely sure how to take the Iron Man leg off, Daniel crawls into bed still wearing it. “C’mon, Peggy,” he says, smiling suggestively as he pats the mattress next to him.

She arches an eyebrow. “Are you hoping I’ll come to bed naked? Because that’s not happening, Daniel.”

As she disappears into the bathroom, Daniel gets a good look at his wife in profile. He frowns. He’s not imagining it. Peggy’s definitely gained weight.

*

“We need to talk.”

“Let me guess,” says Tony, not bothering to look up. He plugs another variable into his father’s equation, solves for _t._ “It’s not me, it’s you. Or is it me? It’s usually me.” _C’mon, Pepper, smile._ He sneaks a glance at her face, but her mouth is set in a thin line. He pushes his chair back from his workstation. “What’s up?”

“The board wants me in New York, Tony.”

“But we’re great together,” he says automatically, frowning when he realizes that’s the wrong response. “Wait, what?”

“The board wants me in New York,” Pepper repeats, stepping between his legs. “I just got the call. Senator Boynton’s staff put out a statement trying to pin the disturbance at the gala on invited guests of Stark Industries.” She sighs. “It’s bad enough that I’m in Malibu when parts of Manhattan are still without power.”

She settles into his lap, but instead of wrapping his arms around her, Tony continues to grip the armrests. “Pepper, I thought we agreed, there’s no reason you can’t oversee the relief efforts from here. Need I remind you, I was having panic attacks before - ”

“Tony, you’re still having panic attacks,” Pepper interrupts. “You’re still not sleeping.”

“ - we left,” Tony finishes. “You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?”

“I’m not breaking up with you, Tony,” says Pepper. “In fact, I want you to come back to New York with me.”

“No,” says Tony, shaking his head. “Pepper, I can’t. I’m not ready. I won’t do it. You’ll just have to tell the board no.” He closes his eyes as she rests her forehead against his. He already knows what she’s going to say.

“Look me in the eye, Tony,” Pepper says softly. “Tell me you’re going to get help. I’ll take a leave of absence. Whatever it takes. I just need you to promise me.”

“I can’t go back to New York,” Tony insists, opening his eyes. It takes every bit of his willpower not to wipe away the tear rolling down Pepper’s cheek.

Pepper slides off his lap. “And I can’t stay in California.” Tony knows a forced smile when he sees one. “Happy’s filing a flight plan for tomorrow, should you change your mind.”

Tony picks up his pencil, ready to resume his search for flaws in his father’s math. “What makes you so sure I’ll have the time machine fixed by then?” he calls after her.

“I have faith in you, Tony,” says Pepper, pausing on the stairs. “I wish you’d have a little faith in yourself.”

Only Tony isn’t listening. _Where_ v _is the relative velocity, and_ c _is the speed of light, solve for_ t _..._

*

It isn’t often that Peggy’s up before her husband. She can count on one hand the number of times she’s beaten him out of bed, and three of them had been when he was laid up with a dislocated shoulder courtesy of Dottie Underwood. But for all she isn’t a morning person, Peggy thinks she could get used to waking up next to this handsome man. Impulsively, she reaches out to stroke his stubbled cheek. She already knows their son will have his father’s ears, but what about Daniel’s strong jaw?

Peggy bites her lip. She has no way of knowing if this baby is one of the children from the home videos. She assumes she’s still pregnant. But she could easily lose this baby, which is why telling Daniel will have to wait until they’re safely back in 1949. Peggy slips quietly out from under the covers.

In the bathroom, J.A.R.V.I.S. chirps, “Good morning, Director Carter! I’ve taken the liberty of having breakfast sent up. You’ll find a tray outside your door when you and Chief Sousa are ready for it.”

As she is clutching her stomach presently, Peggy would like very much to tell J.A.R.V.I.S. off for mentioning food. But she is, of course, British. “Thank you,” she says politely.

“You’re most welcome, Director Carter. You should know, Mr. Stark has made excellent progress on the time machine and hopes to be able to send you back tonight. Have you given much thought to how you might like to spend your final day here?”

“Oh,” says Peggy, flustered. She hadn’t expected them to be able to go home so soon. “You might ask Daniel?”

Of course, J.A.R.V.I.S. takes this as an invitation to rouse her slumbering husband. So much for having time to pull herself together before Daniel woke up. Peggy straightens, hastily retying the silk robe she’d pulled on after their frantic lovemaking the night before. She forces a smile just as he opens the bathroom door. Normally he wouldn’t be able to move so quickly, but he’d fallen asleep wearing the Stark prosthesis.

“Good morning, darling,” she says, kissing his cheek.

Daniel rubs sleep from his bleary eyes. “Did I hear J.A.R.V.I.S. say the time machine was almost ready?” His hair’s sticking up every which way, but when he goes to smooth it, an errant curl falls across his forehead. He blows out a puff of air.

“You did,” Peggy confirms, though she reminds herself not to get her hopes up. There’s still so much that could go wrong. “He wants to know how we’d like to spend our last day in the future.”

Daniel frowns. “We’re not needed in the lab?” His arms circle her waist.

“No,” says J.A.R.V.I.S. “Due to the high risk of exposure to Zero Matter, Mr. Stark has implemented strict containment protocols that currently make it impossible for anyone else to enter the lab. Might I suggest the beach?”

“Oh no,” Peggy says immediately. “We couldn’t possibly. We don’t even have swimsuits.”

At the same time, Daniel raps on the Stark prosthesis. “This thing waterproof?” he asks.

J.A.R.V.I.S. addresses her first. “Actually, Director Carter, you do. I think you’ll find Ms. Potts took care of all the relevant details. And to answer your question, Chief Sousa, yes, the Iron Man leg is waterproof to a depth of 3,000 meters.”

“Tell you what,” says Daniel, who Peggy sometimes forgets actually likes living in California, “I’ll just dip my toes. Peggy, what do you think?”

She knows he’s just excited by the possibility of spending a day at the beach unencumbered by his prosthesis, but all she can think about is the busted zipper on the evening gown. The weight she’s gained will be plainly obvious in a swimsuit. “That’s - well - um - ”

Daniel’s face falls. “Peggy,” he mutters, “it’s fine if you want to spend it with Steve, I can - ”

 _Oh bloody hell._ “Daniel,” she cuts in, “before all this time travel nonsense, I was planning to spend a relaxing weekend in Malibu with my husband. So we’ve bollocksed the relaxing part. It’s you that I want to spend time with, Daniel. Not Steve.”

“But I don’t want you to regret - ”

“Steve is my past, Daniel,” Peggy interrupts. “My future is with you.” And she sighs. Because if a day at the beach is what he wants, who is she not to give it to him? Resolutely, she says, “So the beach?”

She’s not expecting him to burst out laughing.

“What?” she demands. “What is it? Did I - ”

“It’s just,” Daniel manages, “your _face,_ Peg. Tell me the truth. Have you ever been to a beach?”

“Yes!” she says indignantly. “I was on Gold Beach on - ”

“D-Day doesn’t count, Peg,” Daniel cuts in, kissing her forehead. “We’ve lived in California for how long? It’ll be fun.” He gives her a little squeeze. “So long as you’re up for it.”

“Why wouldn’t I - ” Peggy catches a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. No wonder he’s asking, she’s so pale. “Well, I suppose I am feeling a bit peckish.” With a little luck, she’ll keep breakfast down and he’ll be none the wiser. “J.A.R.V.I.S., I believe you said something about having a tray sent up?”

She orders Daniel to wash up while she retrieves it, just in case the butler’s sent up anything that induces nausea. The tray is blissfully devoid of bacon; however, there is an envelope with Peggy’s name scrawled across the front in Pepper’s handwriting. Peggy knows she ought to wait. Any minute now, Daniel could emerge from the bathroom, and if it’s anything to do with the baby, she’ll be in the uncomfortable position of having to explain. But when she hears the buzz of the electric razor, she decides to hedge her bets.

 _Peggy,_ the note reads, _I thought this might put your mind at ease._ It’s signed, simply, “Pepper.”

Inside the envelope is a birth certificate for a Michael Thomas Sousa, born 19 December 1949 at New York Maternity Hospital, Peggy’s signature right below Daniel’s. Her hand flutters to her belly and she covers her mouth.

She’s pregnant with their son.

Peggy’s so busy imagining a little boy with Daniel’s ears and dimples and chin that she almost doesn’t notice the buzzing has stopped. She hastily folds the birth certificate and shoves it in a dresser drawer, not a second before her husband steps out of the bathroom.

He looks at her curiously. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Of course,” Peggy tells him. Because she’s going to give birth to a healthy baby boy in a New York hospital - which should give her pause but doesn’t - five years to the day her husband nearly died on a battlefield in Belgium. They’ll name their son for two uncles he’ll never know, but who would’ve been so proud of their legacy. She can’t help but well up. “Daniel, we’re going home.”

Her husband, who’d probably never doubted it for a minute, grins. “’Course we are, Peg,” he says, “but first, we’re going to the beach.”

*

Pepper’s bags are packed, but there’s one more thing she needs to do before leaving Malibu. “I’ll only be a minute,” she tells Happy, whose response is to recline the seat all the way back.

“Yeah, yeah,” Happy grumbles, flipping his shades down, “I’ve heard that before.” He yawns.

“One minute,” Pepper assures him, sliding a manilla folder from her briefcase. She finds Bruce alone in Tony’s lab, bent over the prosthesis Daniel brought with him from 1949. Pepper clears her throat. The scientist jumps back. He looks guilty, contrite even. The exact opposite of Tony when she catches him doing something he shouldn’t. Pepper smiles.

Bruce scratches the back of his head, blows out a puff of air. “Just making a few adjustments, that’s all,” he squeaks. When Pepper doesn’t say anything, just continues to smile, he beckons her to come closer. “See those dark stains?” he asks as she peers down into the socket. She nods. “They’re from pressure sores.”

Pepper’s nose wrinkles as she considers this. “Carry on, Dr. Banner.”

He’s fidgeting with a small screwdriver, passing it between his hands, and he doesn’t appear to notice there’s a file on his desk that wasn’t there before. “Tony’s downstairs calibrating the time machine. If you want, I could - ”

“That won’t be necessary,” she interrupts.

“You’re really not going to say goodbye?” Bruce blurts. He bows his head. “To the Sousas,” he mumbles.

The truth is, Pepper doesn’t want this to be goodbye. What she wants is for one day very soon, Tony to come to his senses, don the Iron Man suit and fly to New York. There will be paperwork to contend with (there always is when he enters restricted airspace), sure, but at least they’ll be together.

“I have a plane to catch,” she tells Bruce, turning to go.

“Because the CEO of Stark Industries flies commercial?” he calls after her, a wry smile no doubt turning the corners of his mouth. “You know, when it’s your plane, it doesn’t typically leave - hey, what’s this?”

Pepper pauses in the doorway to watch Bruce skim his offer letter. His jaw drops, probably at the number of zeros in his department’s budget. “What seems to be the problem, Dr. Banner?” she says sweetly when he looks up. “Is it not what we talked about?”

“No, it is, it’s just - ” he shakes his head “ - I wasn’t expecting - I’m not certain I can - ”

“Accept, Bruce,” she urges, without waiting for his reply.

Back in the garage, Happy’s asleep in the driver’s seat of the Rolls-Royce, obviously expecting a delay of Tony proportions. Pepper raps once on the window and tries to hide her smile as the bodyguard flails.

“I’m up!” Happy shouts. “I’m - ”

“Airport, Happy,” Pepper reminds him, smoothing her skirt as she slides into the passenger seat. “There’s a board meeting in five hours. I don’t intend to miss it.”

Happy’s eyes widen. “A board meeting in - ” he swears, peeling out.

Pepper allows herself one wistful glance back at Tony’s mansion. So much for moving in.

*

“You should be in bed,” Natasha says as Clint winces his way onto a barstool in a crowded taco shop just off the pier. The waitress plunks down two waters and disappears.

Clint grunts, liberating the salsa-stained menu from behind the napkin holder. “Need grease.”

“You need liquids - ”

“Beer’s a liquid,” Clint interjects.

Natasha pretends not to hear him. “ - and rest,” she finishes, sliding her foot down his calf. She pinches his ankle with her toes.

The waitress comes back a few minutes later to take their order.

“I’ll have an iced tea and the black bean burger,” Natasha says. “Only can I get a salad instead of fries?”

The waitress jabs at the menu with her pen. “No substitutions.”

“Bring the lady her salad,” says Clint. “I’ll eat her fries.” He orders the fish taco basket and tells the waitress to leave off anything green. “And bring me a margarita on the rocks. With salt!” he calls after her.

Natasha’s arched eyebrow says, _really Clint, tequila?_ But all she does is pick up a packet of the all-natural sweetener she likes and flick it a few times, watching the waitstaff drag several tables together to seat a large party. “You’re not getting salt,” she says matter-of-factly.

Sure enough, there’s exactly one sad clump on the rim of Clint’s glass, which the waitress slams down so hard liquid sloshes onto the table. “Sorry,” she says unapologetically before she hustles off again.

“You know,” says Natasha, dumping sugar substitute into her tea and daintily squeezing a lemon wedge, “cabbage is green. I’m pretty sure their fish tacos are served with slaw.”

“That’s different,” Clint insists. “There’s mayonnaise.” He takes a sip of his margarita. It burns all the way down. OK, so maybe tequila wasn’t what Bruce meant when he told Clint to drink plenty of liquids. He rubs his breastbone with a closed fist.

“You OK, Barton?”

Natasha’s tone is even, but her brow knits ever-so-slightly. She has her palm outstretched, and for some reason Clint thinks it’s a good idea to grab her hand. He feels her tendons tighten - no doubt fighting the instinct to jerk away - but then her fingers curl around his. “Yeah,” Clint hears himself say, “I am.” He runs a callused finger over her pulse point and wonders, not for the first time, what she could possibly see in him. He picks the exact moment the waitress returns to blurt, “You know I’m shit at relationships.”

Natasha helps herself to his - her? - _their_ fries. “Everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. knows that,” she says, wiping at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “The question is, what makes you think I’m any better?”

Clint freezes mid-bite, a chunk of beer-battered white fish dropping unceremoniously onto his lap. Natasha’s never mentioned anyone, but he doesn’t have any illusions about the nature of their arrangement. “You’re good at everything, Tasha,” he mutters, reaching for the ketchup.

Her little huff is barely audible. “They didn’t teach me to love in the Red Room.” It’s a small enough table that her knee nudging his could be unintentional, except Natasha’s never done anything unintentionally in her life. She tilts her chin up. “But I think you could.”

Clint laughs shakily. “No pressure.”

“There isn’t, actually.” Natasha looks at him, green eyes completely serious. “I’m not proposing marriage, Clint. Just - ” she pauses, and he knows she’s searching for the right word in English when she bites her lower lip “ - monogamy.”

The last time Clint slept with a woman who wasn’t Natasha was way back in 2009, a month or two before she got shot escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. He’d pulled her out against orders and hasn’t been with anyone else since. But she doesn’t need to know that. At least not yet. “I think that’s doable, yeah,” he says.

There’s an awful screech in his left ear as eight wooden chairs scrape across the concrete floor. Clint scowls at the fraternity brothers being seated next to them and turns the volume way down on his hearing aids. Of course, he can still read lips, so he spends the rest of lunch whispering to Natasha everything they’re saying about her. She laughs throatily and drops her hand to his knee. Clint throws down a few crumpled twenties. They walk out of the restaurant hand in hand.

“Do you want to head back to Stark’s?” Natasha asks. She’s donned a pair of dark sunglasses, but behind the lenses, he’s pretty sure her eyes flicker to his wounded side.

Clint lifts a hand to block the sun. He’s in some pain still, but the tacos had helped, and he’d gone to the trouble of borrowing a pair of shorts. “Let’s check out the boardwalk,” he suggests.

To his surprise, Natasha agrees, though she insists on walking slightly in front of him, no doubt to sway her sarong-wrapped hips tantalizingly. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Clint hisses in her ear.

“You mean making sure no one collides with your broken ribs?”

 _Oh._ Clint hadn’t thought of that. “Lead the way, then,” he says with a shrug, lifting their clasped hands over her head as she weaves through the crowd. How often have they played tourists in a resort town? He follows her into a jewelry stall, wondering who she’s pretending to be today, which alias is tucked under her bra strap. She sweeps her curls to one side so Clint can fasten the clasp of a necklace she’ll never buy. He presses a kiss to her lightly freckled shoulder.

Natasha spins in his arms. “Well?” she demands.

Clint lowers his gaze. Dangling at the hollow of her neck is a delicate silver arrow.

*

In the three years he’s been West Coast Bureau Chief of the SSR, Daniel’s only been to the beach once, for a case. It had been his first month in Los Angeles, and the sand had gotten into his shoes, into clothes, into his prosthesis, irritating his stump and causing his skin to chafe for days. He hadn’t tried to go back, telling himself it was the same watching the waves roll in from the pier.

 _Only,_ Daniel thinks as he wiggles his toes in the Pacific, _it’s not the same at all._

He scans the beach for Peggy, who’d gotten her fill of sand and sun in the first half-hour and is at this point humoring him. He spots his wife - or rather, he spots the flopping straw hat on loan from Pepper - halfway up the beach. There’s a battered paperback open on Peggy’s lap, which she isn’t so much reading as she is using to hide the fact she’s spying on everyone else at the beach. He gives her a minute, and when she doesn’t turn the page, he follows her gaze to the water’s edge. Two little boys laugh and shriek, chasing each other through the surf.

It’s impossible not to think of Thomas, of running carefree and wild down a rocky, stormy shore, of fishing off the jetty, of collecting seashells to take home to baby sisters.

The night before his brother shipped out, Daniel had talked Thomas into walking down to the banks of the Taunton, where they’d kicked off their shoes and waded into the icy water without saying a word. His legs had gone numb almost immediately, a preview perhaps of what was to come on the other side of the Atlantic, but Daniel somehow managed to wait his brother out. He’s still not sure if Thomas actually blinked first, or if he just wanted to get home to his wife, Eva, but he can’t ask because his brother’s ship went down off Okinawa before news of the hit Daniel had taken in Bastogne ever reached the Pacific.

Down the beach, the younger of the two boys blinks first and races, shivering, to their mother, no doubt to tattle on his brother. Daniel chuckles. He knows why he’s watching them, but he’s not sure about Peggy.

Not that he doesn’t have his suspicions.

Daniel knows his wife, though, and if Peggy’s keeping a secret, he’s just going to have to wait until she’s ready to tell him. He lets wet sand slip between his toes and tilts his head up just in time to see the flash of red on the boardwalk. He watches as Natasha and Clint weave in and out through the crowd. He could wave, but he doesn’t. For all he knows, they could be out on official S.H.I.E.L.D. business, so Daniel turns his attention back to Peggy. She’s watching the brothers get toweled off by their father, hand resting on her belly. Daniel thinks of the children from the home movies.

_You might not be able to take them to the beach, but you can take them fishing off the jetty._

Daniel trudges through the sand to where Peggy’s pretending to read and slings a towel over his shoulders, leaning in for a kiss. “Oops,” he says when he sees he’s dripped water all over her book.

“I see you’re brown as a nut,” says Peggy, her own skin very pink.

“Why don’t we head in?” Daniel suggests. “I bet we could find some aloe to rub on your back.”

Peggy twists her body, trying to peer over her sunburnt shoulder. Mostly, she gives her husband a good, long look at her ample cleavage. “Oh, stop,” she says as Daniel rakes his eyes over her swimsuit-clad body. “You’re making me blush.”

“Really?” Daniel quips. “Couldn’t tell.”

Peggy swats at his chest. He catches her hand and kisses it. “Aren’t you clever,” she grumbles as they head back up the path. Someone sees Daniel’s red, white and blue leg and renders a salute, but he’s the only one. Either people are just more used to prosthetics in the 21st century, or they’re just used to Tony Stark.

“I’m going to rinse off,” Daniel announces when they reach the pool deck, jerking his thumb in the direction of the showers. He eyes Peggy’s bathing suit again. “You know, if you wanted - ”

“Daniel, stop,” Peggy interrupts, crossing her arms to hide the scar on her abdomen. “What use am I going to have for a bikini in 1949? Besides,” she says, a bit wistfully, “it’s not like I’ll be able to wear it much longer.”

And she immediately clamps her hand over her mouth.

“Peggy,” Daniel says slowly, “did you just say you wouldn’t - ”

She nods.

He swallows. He thinks he knows what that means, but he needs to be sure. “Because you’re - ”

Peggy grabs his hand and places it on her belly. “You’re going to be a father, Daniel.”

Daniel lets out a whoop, not really thinking as he picks her up and spins her around. “Oh God,” he says when he realizes what he’s done, gently setting her down. “Peg, I didn’t mean to - the baby - that’s not going to - ”

“The baby’s fine, Daniel,” Peggy assures him, and she tells him about going to Pepper’s doctor. “We have a healthy - ”

Her voice catches on the word “baby.”

“A baby,” Daniel breathes. “Wow.”

And, blinking back tears, Peggy nods.

*

Not sure what else to do, Steve hits the gym. He lifts, he curls, he presses, until every muscle in his body aches. Then he does another set of reps.

Someone - Tony, maybe, or Natasha - slips a tabloid under his door while he’s out. Steve stoops to pick it up. There, on the cover, is a photo of him dancing with Peggy.

“FROZEN FOR 67 YEARS, CAPTAIN AMERICA LOOKS FOR LOVE IN THE 21ST CENTURY,” it screams. Steve snorts. He’d found love in the last century. What he needs to figure out now is how to let go. He’s skimming the article when Natasha knocks.

“Sorry,” Steve says absently when he sees she’s dressed for a run. “I went this morning.”

Natasha’s skin is flushed, like she’s spent all day in the sun. “You mean before you hit the gym for three hours?” Steve scratches the nape of his neck. _Had it been that long?_ He’d lost track of time. She nods at the gossip rag clutched in his other hand. “Thought you might want the photo of Peggy. I know S.H.I.E.L.D. confiscated your compass.”

Steve sets his jaw. He tosses the magazine into the trash.

“Captain Rogers, sir,” pipes an aghast J.A.R.V.I.S., “if you would recycle - ”

“Have you had a chance to consider Fury’s offer?” Natasha wants to know.

There’s a whoop from the pool deck below. They both reach the window in time to watch Daniel pick Peggy up and spin her around.

“She must have told him she’s pregnant,” Natasha says casually, though Steve knows better. It’s another test, just like the tabloid slipped under his door had been.

“Good,” says Steve. It hadn’t sat right with him, Peggy not wanting to tell her husband about the baby. Below, Daniel presses his hands to Peggy’s belly. “A man deserves to know he’s going to be a father.”

“Mm,” Natasha murmurs, and maybe watching the Sousas is starting to feel a bit too voyeuristic because she steps away from the window. “I’m going to - ” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder.

Steve allows himself one more wistful glance. He counts to three before calling, “Nice necklace.”

Natasha pauses in the doorway. She doesn’t turn around, but he can see her reach for the little arrow pendant. “Thanks.”

*

What Bruce is supposed to be doing is triple-checking Tony’s math. What he’s actually doing is plugging an occasional variable into an equation while sneaking furtive glances as Daniel dons the outmoded prosthesis. It seems wrong, almost cruel, to send a good man back in time when the technology he needs to walk won’t be invented for decades, long after he’s paid a physical toll to get by in a society that will always see him as less than.

“You’re smiling,” Bruce says. It just slips out, not quite a casual observation, and it makes him cringe because what does he know about happiness?

“I am,” Daniel confirms. There’s a thoughtful pause before he reveals, “Peggy’s pregnant.”

“Oh,” says Bruce, and once he’s had a second to process it, _“oh.”_ He’s not entirely sure how people can see misery and disaster every day and still want to bring children into the world, but congratulations are customary. “That’s, uh, great. I’m really happy for you guys.”

It’s half-hearted, certainly, but Bruce is still not expecting Daniel to call him out on it. “No, I get it. Peg’s nervous, too. Acting like she isn’t, but that’s all it is, an act. Not that I blame her. Kids’re scary, even when your husband’s not a cripple. But you know what?” Daniel smiles crookedly. “The woman I love is pregnant with my child. That’s more than I could’ve hoped for when the chaplain at the field hospital was administering last rites.”

Bruce swallows. “That’s not - ” he shakes his head, tongue flicking over his lips to moisten them. His eyes fall on the Stark prosthesis. “You should take it back with you. Let Howard take it apart, put it back together. Maybe he can build you something less conspicuous. Maybe - ”

“Bruce,” Daniel interrupts, “it’s OK. Aren’t you the one who keeps saying these things, they’ve already happened? If you sent an Iron Man leg back in time, we’d’ve turned up a reference to it, so I think we have to assume you didn’t. Though, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Sure, anything,” says Bruce automatically. He wants to help, he really does.

Daniel scratches his chin. “Peggy,” he says at last. “She’s still alive, isn’t she?”

“That’s not - I can’t - ”

“Because when J.A.R.V.I.S. put our names up on the wall, there was no date of death for her,” Daniel continues, “and there was for me.”

There’s no time to answer, not before Tony barges in, though Bruce thinks the stricken look on his face is all the confirmation Daniel needs.

“Flux capacitor’s working again,” Tony announces. He turns to Daniel. “Where’s your wife? She not going back with you?”

But Daniel just smiles. “Might want to look around, Stark,” he says, nodding at the stairs. “She’s right there.” He rises jerkily to his feet as the glass door slides open and extends his hand to his wife. “Ready to go home?”

“I am,” says Peggy in a voice that says she’s been ready since they arrived. Natasha, Clint and Steve follow her into the lab. For the first time in three days, the supersoldier isn’t clenching his jaw. Still, he hangs back, an anachronism. A man out of time.

It’s a look Bruce recognizes, mainly because he’d worn it a lot in Kolkata. He hadn’t been totally sure what he was doing there, either. Looking for absolution, maybe? Not that he’d found it. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Natasha, leaning against one of the lab tables, Clint’s elbow propped behind her. They’re a hairsbreadth apart, their bodies angled toward each other, subtly announcing the change in their relationship status.

Tony clucks impatiently. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he calls, beckoning for Peggy, Daniel and the other Avengers to follow him.

It’s hard watching Daniel limp down two flights of stairs when there’s a perfectly good prosthesis in Tony’s lab. “You know I can’t,” says Daniel when Bruce opens his mouth to offer it again. “But thank you, Bruce. For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” says Bruce, following Daniel’s gaze to the far side of the room, where Peggy is saying a quiet goodbye to Steve. She lifts onto her toes and kisses Steve’s cheek.

In the end, it’s anti-climactic. The only thing Tony’s done to change Howard’s setup is to replace the mirror. He makes the Sousas stand in front of it and uses chalk to mark the hot zone, within which anything that’s touched Zero Matter will be sucked into the past when the switch flips.

“Remember to keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times,” he quips. “Oh, and tell my old man next time he breaks something, I’m not fixing it.”

Tony throws the switch, and a shimmering blue light washes over Peggy and Daniel. There’s an otherworldly shout - _“Peggy! Sousa! Where the hell’ve you been?”_ \- as a small square of the lab exists simultaneously in 1949 and 2012 in the split second before the portal closes. The room is suddenly airless. Then the light explodes, like a star going supernova.

_Amazing._

Clint whistles lowly. He nudges Natasha and announces, “I could eat.” He turns to Steve. “Could you eat?”

Steve has to tear his eyes away from where Peggy had been standing. “Yeah,” he says finally, “I could eat.”

A wry smile twists Bruce’s mouth. “What’ll it be, Tony? Shawarma again?”

Except Tony’s going to have a hard time delivering the punchline when he’s hyperventilating. It’s only after Natasha goes to fetch a paper bag for the billionaire to breathe into that it dawns on Bruce the voice they’d heard was Tony’s father.

*

**_Malibu, June 1949_ **

“Words cannot express,” Edwin begins, quickly counting how many people have turned up in the middle of the night to celebrate Miss Carter and Chief Sousa’s safe return, “how delightful it is to see you again. Champagne?”

Mr. Stark snaps his fingers. “Excellent idea, Jarvis,” he says. “Bring up two of my best, will you?”

“Two bottles of the 1928 Pol Roger, coming right up,” Edwin says primly to his employer, whom he has no intention of forgiving no matter how well Miss Carter looks. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

The billionaire roars suddenly with laughter. “Hell, bring up the entire cellar, Jarvis!” He slaps his knee. “Peg, I want you to tell me everything there is to know about the future.”

“Everything? Perhaps another night, Howard, Daniel and I are exhausted.” Miss Carter yawns. She must see him pulling glassware from the cupboard behind the bar because she calls, “Six, Mr. Jarvis.”

Edwin’s brow furrows. “Six?” he repeats. No, no, he’d counted seven. Miss Carter, Chief Sousa and Miss Roberts, all on the couch; Mr. Stark, lounging about in that terrible silk robe Edwin tries every week to lose; his dear, sweet Ana, hair long and loose; and Dr. Samberly, who deserves far more credit for this happy homecoming than he will receive. _That’s six._ “Ah, yes, and me, of course,” says Edwin. “Back in a jiffy.”

Chief Sousa clears his throat. “Actually, Jarvis,” he says with a quick glance at Miss Carter, who smooths the front of her dress and nods, “Peggy and I have some news.”

Miss Roberts squeals. “Oh, Peg,” she breathes, “is it what I think it is?”

“It is,” Miss Carter confirms, lips curling into a shy smile.

And then Edwin’s wife emits a shrill sound unlike any he’s heard her make before, and all he can do is watch with polite befuddlement as Ana yanks Miss Carter and Chief Sousa and Miss Roberts into a many-armed hug.

“Terribly sorry,” he says, wanting very much to partake in this most joyous celebration, “but what is your news? I must’ve missed the announcement.”

The room falls silent, and Edwin can’t figure out why Chief Sousa won’t look him in the eye.

Until Mr. Stark claps him on the back - where on _earth_ did he find a cigar? - and says, “Peggy’s pregnant, Jarvis.”

“Oh,” Edwin manages, unsure why the happy news leaves him feeling as though he’s just been clobbered with a brick. “Well. I’ll just grab that champagne, then. The 1928 Pol Roger, _excellent_ vintage, a favorite of Sir Winston Churchill’s ... ”

He hears Dr. Samberly ask Miss Carter if she plans to continue working as he excuses himself.

Downstairs, Edwin almost knocks over a rack of Mr. Stark’s favorite brandy. “Good God, Edwin,” he mutters, resting his forearm against the cool wall of the cellar, “she is your dearest friend.” He must figure out a way to be happy for Miss Carter. He simply must. Edwin takes a deep breath and forces a smile. Now where was he? _Ah, yes, the Pol Roger._

“Mr. Jarvis?”

“Miss Carter!” he exclaims, when he sees her on the rickety stairs. “You must turn around! This is no place for a woman in your condition!”

There’s a hint of a smile on her cherry lips as she completely ignores him. “In my condition? You mean whilst pregnant, Mr. Jarvis?”

“I do mean when you are with child,” Edwin snaps. “Does Chief Sousa know you’re down here?”

“Daniel is very busy threatening Dr. Samberly not to breathe a word of any of this to anybody at the moment, but I will make sure to tell him I descended to the cellar just as soon as we go back upstairs,” Miss Carter simpers.

“I suppose he’s allowing you to continue working,” says Edwin. He closes his eyes. “What a silly question. My apologies, Miss Carter. I know it is not up to Chief Sousa.”

“No,” Miss Carter agrees, and she sighs. “Are you all right, Mr. Jarvis?”

“Me?” Edwin replies, quite flustered. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be? In fact, I believe - ” he finally sees the champagne he’d been sent to retrieve in the first place “ - congratulations are in order. Miss Carter. I mean, Mrs. Sousa. I mean - dear me, if I’m still making that mistake in a few months, I could cause a scandal.”

“Oh, no more than me when I show up to the office in a maternity dress, I’m sure.” Miss Carter takes a seat on the lowest step and pats the stair next to her.

Technically Edwin is working, but he joins her just the same. After a very long pause, he says, “Miss Carter, let me preface this with how gleeful, ecstatic and overjoyed I am to have you and Chief Sousa home. I am so happy about your impending bundle of joy, and beyond thrilled you chose to share the news first with us.” Edwin hangs his head. “I am also quite jealous, it would seem.”

“Because you want this with Mrs. Jarvis.”

“More than anything,” Edwin confesses. He slowly exhales. Now seems as good a time as any to tell her. “I am considering leaving Mr. Stark’s employ.”

“What? No! You can’t do that. Mr. Jarvis, I beg of you, reconsider.”

It’s with a touch of bitterness that he says, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Are you not fond of our adventures?” Miss Carter tries. “Do you not - ”

Edwin gives her a stern look. “I should think there will be considerably fewer adventures in the months to come, Miss Carter.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “No, I’ve spoken to Ana about it, and we believe it is for the best. We will go back to England. I expect we will be happy there, or at least outside the blast radius of whatever poorly-conceived contraption Mr. Stark comes up with next.”

He starts up the stairs - without the Pol Roger, _damn,_ where is that champagne? - but doesn’t get very far before Miss Carter shouts after him, “Edwin Jarvis, don’t you walk away from me!” She puts her hands on her hips. “You don’t quit, and you don’t move to England, and do you know how I know that? Because in the future I just visited, you’re the nearest thing to a father Howard’s son ever had.”

That stops Edwin in his tracks. “I was?” He shakes his head. “I mean, I am?”

She nods. “There is only so much Daniel and I can reveal about the future, but know this, Mr. Jarvis: you will be beloved by a child who exhibits both his father’s genius and your incredibly kind heart.”

Angry tears spring to Edwin’s eyes. “So you’re saying it is my duty to serve Mr. Stark until the inevitable happens and his philandering produces an heir? What if I’m no longer interested in mopping up his messes? What if you haven’t changed my mind? What if I still decide to walk away, Mrs. Sousa?”

“I don’t believe you capable of turning your back on a child in need, Mr. Jarvis. I don’t believe you capable of turning your back on _me._ You made an indelible impact on the Anthony Stark who helped send the three of us home.”

“Three?” Edwin repeats, and oh, bloody hell, he’s done for the moment she touches her belly. He’ll stay, for Howard and Howard’s son and more importantly, for Miss Carter and Chief Sousa and the baby. If Ana can find it in her to be excited for them, so can he. “Miss Carter.”

“Mr. Jarvis.”

She humors him on the way up, his hand hovering at the small of her back as they climb the steep steps. They’re at the top of the staircase before he remembers. “The champagne! No, you stay here,” he tells her. “Though if the Pol Roger isn’t to your liking, is there something else I can get you?”

“None for me, thanks.”

“Something medicinal?” Edwin suggests. “Brandy, or maybe a nice cognac? Oh! I know just - ”

“No alcohol, Mr. Jarvis,” she says with a smile. “It’s bad for the baby.”

He waves his hand. “A temperance myth, Miss Carter.”

“Daniel and I’ve decided not to risk it.”

Edwin returns to the cellar and grabs two bottles of the Pol Roger and one of Mr. Stark’s favorite brandy, just in case Miss Carter changes her mind. He turns and almost collides with Ana.

“Did Peggy tell you?” she asks excitedly, arms twining around his neck.

Edwin sets the alcohol on the nearest shelf so he can hold his wife properly. “Tell me what, my love?”

Ana covers her mouth. “Well, strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to _know_ \- ” she giggles “ - but Chief Sousa is so excited he already asked me. They want us to be godparents, Edwin! Oh, we must find a way to say yes.”

Edwin looks at his wife, his beautiful, Hungarian, Jewish wife, and promises her yes, of course they can be godparents to a Catholic baby, nevermind the church, and she laughs, for a minute deliriously happy, even though he knows they will cry about this later. He lifts her knuckles to his mouth and kisses them, and later still, the next time Mr. Stark does something as mad as build a time machine, he will tell her what Miss Carter said about Master Anthony, and they will stay.

*

That night, Peggy bends her own rules. “Mmm,” she mutters, her feet planted on either side of Daniel’s muscular shoulders as he presses kisses along her inner thigh. _“Mmm.”_ His lips leave her flesh momentarily, and his dark eyes look at her with adoration she’s not entirely sure she deserves.

“You’re beautiful, Peg,” he tells her before ducking back between her legs.

She’d been pleasantly surprised the first night they spent together to find out how good he was at this, not needing any of the direction she’d been prepared to give. He’s only gotten better as he’s learned her body, how to wind her up, how to please her. If only they weren’t in the guest bedroom at Howard’s.

“Come here,” Peggy orders.

On his way up the mattress, Daniel stops to kiss the slight swell of her belly. Then his fingers brush over the old, ugly Roxxon scar. Peggy touches it, too.

“The doctor - the one Pepper took me to - didn’t seem to think there’d be any problems,” she says. So far, her husband hasn’t said a word about how long she took to tell him. It seems silly, now, though it hadn’t at the time. Peggy takes a deep breath. “But I was worried, so she did an ultrasound so I could see the baby.”

Her husband shakes his head. There aren’t ultrasounds in 1949. They haven’t been invented yet. He props himself up on one elbow, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

“It’s - I’m not sure how to explain it. It’s sort of like an x-ray that uses sound waves to measure the womb. Dr. Calbert wanded over my belly with a sensor, and I was able to see the baby on a television screen. I think it was supposed to be reassuring. But all I could think about was how disappointed you would be if something happened to the baby. How disappointed _I_ would be.”

“Peggy - ”

Tears well in her eyes. “I’m so glad we’re home, Daniel. I’m sorry I waited to tell you. I’m sorry I got to see the baby and you didn’t. I’m sorry - ”

Daniel’s thumb digs into her hipbone. “Peggy,” he says firmly, “stop apologizing. You’re allowed to be scared. We’d landed 63 years in the future with no way of knowing if we ever made it back. I was scared, too, and I wasn’t even worried about a baby. Just you.” Then he smiles sheepishly. “Well, ’til today.”

Peggy sits straight up. “You knew!” She jabs at his chest with a manicured finger. “When did you - how did - ”

“I had my suspicions,” Daniel admits, and she remembers he’s not West Coast Bureau Chief of the SSR for nothing. “You hadn’t been yourself, Peggy.” He splays his fingers on her abdomen. “What about Constance?” he asks.

Peggy frowns. “Constance?”

“If it’s a girl,” Daniel explains. “We could call her Connie.”

“Hmm,” says Peggy, folding an arm behind her head. She could tell Daniel they have a boy, of course. Or she could have a bit of fun. “Constance,” she says, pretending to mull it over. “I like it.” She rolls toward him. “What if you pick the girl name, and I pick the boy name?”

His arm wraps around her, drawing her close. “Do you have a name in mind?”

Peggy nods. “Michael.”

Daniel kisses her nose. “I figured.”

“Michael Thomas.”

For a second, the room is very still, and Peggy wonders if she hasn’t made a terrible mistake. Daniel doesn’t talk about his brother who didn’t come home. She’s about to backpedal when her husband nods.

“Michael Thomas,” he agrees. “It’s a good name.”

His mouth tastes of her, ripe and earthy, when she kisses him. Peggy strokes his cheek, this man she married. Maybe Steve would’ve made her just as happy. But he’d gone into the ice, and for the longest time, she hadn’t let herself dream of a husband, a family, a life.

Then she met Daniel.

And the future’s never looked so bright.

*

**_Back to the future ..._ **

Steve’s thinking about Peggy when he climbs into bed, the swish of her hips, the fullness of her breasts, the cut of the gown she’d worn to the gala. He’s dreamed up a hundred USO dances to take her to, but dames hadn’t dressed like that during the war. The sheer organza had left little to the imagination. Not that Steve has to imagine. He remembers how Peggy felt in the flesh, writhing beneath him, and it’s all too easy to lose himself in the fantasy of unzipping her gown.

Only it’s another man’s wife he’s mentally undressing. Peggy married Daniel. She’s wearing his ring. She’s carrying his child.

Once, a long time ago, Steve had kissed Peggy’s belly and told her when the war ended, he’d court her properly. She’d laughed over his insistence drinks and dancing were in their future, but Steve likes to think he meant it. Had he not put the Valkyrie down, he would’ve met her parents, asked for her hand, gotten down on one knee and married her. Maybe by 1949, they would’ve had a baby on the way.

Except Steve put the Valkyrie down. Peggy mourned him, met Daniel and moved on. Maybe they would’ve had something after the war ended. Maybe not. There’s no way to know, and besides, she’s an old woman now. Steve rolls over, determined to banish all thoughts of Peggy.

It doesn’t work.

Pepper must’ve read somewhere that Steve went to art school because he’d been pleasantly surprised to find the desk in his room stocked with pencils, paints and charcoals, the kind and quality of supplies he often dreamed about but never could afford. Even during the war he’d sketched compulsively, doodles of Colonel Phillips during debriefs, cartoons of the Howling Commandos on missions, one memorable drawing of Peggy in the nude. He’d ripped that page out of his sketchbook and stashed it in a pocket for safekeeping, but 70 years in the Arctic had all but disintegrated it. He’d told Fury the paper scraps had once been a meal ticket, not that the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. believed him. Steve hasn’t had much cause to draw since he came out of the ice, but he feels the urge tonight for some reason. He brushes his fingers longingly over a box of acrylics but figures he better stick to what he knows and selects a graphite pencil. Maybe he’ll sketch the Howling Commandos, or perhaps Howard. He had wondered how Peggy’s life turned out. Thanks to the inventor, he now knows.

Steve draws her first, out of habit. He puts her not in a black evening gown but the uniform she’d worn during the war, hair perfectly coiffed. It had been strange to see her with her hair down at the gala, especially after all the times he’d watched Peggy pluck hairpins from her regulation updo at the end of a long day. She never wanted anyone to see her messy curls back then. Yet they’d been on display tonight, sleek and beautiful.

He’s out of practice and accidentally smudges the drawing.

Steve sighs, not that it was a great likeness of Peggy to begin with. He flips to the next page. He tries drawing Bucky and Dum Dum and Gabe from memory, but they end up looking nothing like his friends. Frustrated, he’s about to put the sketchbook away when inspiration strikes. It doesn’t take him any time at all to dash off a quick comic strip about Tony eating Pepper’s blueberries, complete with an exasperated J.A.R.V.I.S. in speech bubbles. Steve smirks and draws Iron Man blasting off in the last panel, like a bottle rocket on the Fourth of July.

Next up is Bruce in the lab, fiddling with his glasses. It takes Steve a long time to get the scientist’s hair right, and still the drawing seems incomplete. That’s when he remembers seeing a set of Avengers action figures in a store window. Steve adds a little plastic Hulk to the sketch, right next to Bruce’s mug of tea. On to Natasha. Faber-Castell No. 219, deep scarlet red, is the exact shade of her hair. Steve draws the Malibu coast in technicolor, her shouting over her shoulder at him to keep up. It’s much harder to come up with a scene for Clint, whom he still doesn’t know very well. He ends up drawing Clint in the ill-fitting tuxedo, Natasha straightening his tie.

Steve draws Thor, far away on Asgard, his features comically exaggerated. He draws Fury, too intimidating to caricature, keeping a watchful eye on the ragtag band of superheroes he’d assembled to save earth. Steve stares at his drawing. If he doesn’t join S.H.I.E.L.D., what will happen to the Avengers?

“Hey J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Steve calls, “you wouldn’t know how to get in touch with Nick Fury, would you?”

*

“Let me touch you, Tasha,” Clint begs.

He’ll never be one of the glistening beefcakes working out shirtless in the S.H.I.E.L.D. practice gym (for some reason, Natasha’s brain insists on conjuring up a sweat-drenched Brock Rumlow, no doubt because he’s the worst offender, and damn if _that’s_ not an unpleasant intrusion), but his chest is firm and tight, and Natasha has zero complaints as she lowers her mouth, swirling her tongue slowly around his erect nipple. Her eyes lock with his. “No.”

Clint’s been tenting his shorts for a while now, poor guy, but she hasn’t been in any hurry to undress him. She cups his balls, jerks him once roughly through the fabric. The wet spot on the front of his boxers grows. At last she yanks the fabric down, freeing his erection.

As cocks go, Clint’s is nice. He’s not too long, but he’s thick enough she feels a little stretch every time he enters her. There’s a purple-blue vein running along the underside of his dick that she likes to lick from base to tip, which she does now, eliciting a groan. Clint’s hands are no longer behind his head. No, he’s clawing at the sheets next to him, fingers hooked like talons.

 _“Hawkeye,”_ Natasha says silkily, taking him into her mouth.

“Nat,” Clint pants, and he breaks the rules, fingers tangling in her curls as her head bobs, “I’m not going to last. It’s - ” his whole body shudders beneath her “ - it’s been too long.”

She slides her mouth to the tip. “How long?” she murmurs teasingly, wrapping a hand around the base of his cock, beginning to stroke up and down his length.

She’s not expecting a breathy confession. “New York.” There’s a pause. _“Fuck.”_

Natasha freezes. “You mean after the Chitauri invasion?” They’d peeled off their tac suits, ostensibly to check each other for injuries, then fucked frantically in a plaster-and-glass strewn room at Stark Tower. “You haven’t been with anyone else?”

Clint looks at her pleadingly. “C’mon, Tasha. You know it’s been you for a long time.”

She’s already shucking her panties. “Do you trust me?”

“You know I - Jesus, Nat, _fuck,”_ Clint swears as she sinks down onto him. He croaks, “Condom?”

She shakes her head. “We don’t need one.”

“But - ”

“Clint, I’m sterile,” Natasha interrupts. “And I know you got poked and prodded by a S.H.I.E.L.D. doctor after New York, same as me. I haven’t been with anyone else. I haven’t _wanted_ to be with anyone else.”

Three days after she’d landed in California, she’d gotten a text from her Malibu booty call, a surfing instructor with lickable abs. She’d ... ignored it. Natasha clenches her muscles. Clint laughs shakily.

 _“Yeah,”_ he agrees. “Yeah, OK. Fuck, you feel incredible, Tasha.”

Slowly, Natasha begins to ride him. She’s careful to set a pace that won’t tear any stitches - the last thing they need is another Tbilisi, what a bloodbath _that_ had been - and Clint must have the same thought because aside from the occasional abortive thrust, his hips stay rooted to the mattress.

Though, he does prop himself up on one elbow to tell her she’s still wearing a bra.

Natasha’s about to unhook it when Clint says lazily, “Nah, don’t bother. I like how your tits look in black lace.”

Which, of course, is why she’d left it on in the first place. That’s the thing about sex with Clint: it’s nothing if not predictable, and in their line of work, that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

She still hasn’t given him permission to touch her, yet she grants his hand immediate access when his knuckles brush the thick thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs. His thumb finds her clit. “Is this OK?”

“What do you think?” Natasha hisses, tightening around him. _Oh, right there._ For a minute, the only sound in the room is the soft slap of skin on skin.

Naturally, Clint opens his mouth. “Come for me, Tasha. Come for me, baby.”

She opens one heavily-lidded eye. “Don’t call me baby.”

The fucker _grins._ “You love it when I call you baby,” Clint insists. He draws a stuttering breath. “Better pull off. I’m about - ”

“No.”

Clint looks at her quizzically. “No?”

Natasha shakes her head. “Don’t you want to come inside me?” she purrs as his hips cant up. “Don’t you want to - ”

 _“Tasha,”_ he groans.

“That’s what I thought,” she says smugly, riding him through his orgasm. She’s close enough she figures she can get off on friction alone. “Yes,” she gasps, grabbing a fistful of her own hair, “fuck, yes, yes, yes.”

She lifts herself up and collapses on the mattress next to him. She should probably do something about the fluids leaking out of her, but at the moment, Natasha can’t bring herself to care. She tucks herself into Clint’s uninjured side. He drops a kiss on her head.

“Odessa,” he says.

“What about Odessa?” Natasha says sharply because he’s gotten her attention. Three years ago, she’d almost died in the Ukraine after another assassin shot through her to take out the nuclear engineer she was helping escape from Iran. She hadn’t had an extraction plan, yet she’d woken up at Landstuhl a week later with a new pink scar on her abdomen. S.H.I.E.L.D. never identified the source of the hit, and she’s still not sure how Clint got her to Germany.

Clint laces his fingers through hers. “The last time I was with anyone else,” he admits, “was before Odessa.”

 _You know it’s been you for a long time._ Suddenly a lot of things make sense. “Oh.”

“Close as I came to losing you,” Clint mutters, “made me realize I didn’t want anyone else.”

“Clint - ”

“It’s OK, Tasha,” he continues. “I’m willing to take whatever you’ll give me. I’m just - ”

She isn’t good at talking about her emotions - they didn’t teach her how in the Red Room - so she tries to put a lot of feeling into the kiss. There are so many reasons why this won’t work. She’s 27, an ex-KGB assassin with serious trust issues who used to sleep handcuffed to her bed. He’s 41, a former carnie with an eighth grade education who unironically listens to country music.

Clint smacks her ass. “Go clean up,” he tells her. “I don’t want to be the reason you get a UTI.”

Natasha finds this strangely sweet, though she tells him his come-ons need work. “I don’t think anyone will accuse you of being a romantic, Barton.”

“No one’s ever made that mistake, no.”

“Come on, those bandages need changing,” she says, dragging him out of bed with her.

There’s some grumbling as she gathers their discarded clothes, but by the time she gets done in the bathroom, Clint’s already peeled back the gauze. His skin is purple-red, but the stitches seem to be holding. “Going to leave one hell of a scar, though,” he says absently as she scrubs her hands.

“Another for your collection,” Natasha quips, only Clint doesn’t wear his battle scars like badges of honor. He learned early on to cover up any signs of weakness. They’re similar in that regard, she supposes. “Do you think people like us can be happy?”

Clint lifts his chin. “People like us? Spies?”

 _Assassins._ “Yeah.” Natasha bites her lip. She thinks of Peggy and Daniel on the beach. “The Sousas certainly seem happy.”

“You saw them on the beach, didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I hadn’t.”

“And pretending to enjoy the boardwalk with your boyfriend, was that part of the job, too?”

Natasha bats her eyelashes. “Oh, that guy? He’s way too old to be my boyfriend.” It’s a strange word, boyfriend. Is that what Clint is to her now? They’ve been partners for seven years, lovers for six. _Boyfriend._ She supposes it’s fair.

Clint chuckles, then winces. “Laughing still hurts,” he informs her. Almost as if it’s an afterthought, he adds, “Ouch.” He looks thoughtful. “What d’you think the odds are I can get Stark to spring for a first-class ticket back to Jersey?”

“I think he’ll offer to fly you in the Iron Man suit,” she says wryly as Clint pulls on a clean t-shirt. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“You already have one gunshot wound,” Natasha deadpans. She takes a deep breath. “That bloody shirt of Sousa’s, the one you sent back to D.C. Does he - did he die in the line of duty?” _These things,_ she reminds herself, _they’ve already happened._

But to her surprise, Clint shakes his head. “The evidence tag was from the 1970s. He didn’t die until ’85, I don’t think.”

 _No, 1986,_ Natasha mentally corrects. “His personnel file is sealed.”

“Maybe she wanted to protect him.”

Clint’s snoring with his aids out by the time Natasha hears the click of her comms piece. Fury’s voice rumbles in her ear. “Romanoff, you’ve been reassigned,” he says. “Report back to HQ in two weeks.”

 _Two weeks. That’s generous._ Not that Natasha’s questioning it. “And my assignment, sir?”

“Let’s just say recruitment was successful.” Which means Steve must have accepted Fury’s offer. “Oh, and Romanoff? Since I can’t seem to get ahold of Barton, you might tell him he’s on mandatory medical leave for the next two weeks. Don’t let me find out where the two of you went.”

The line goes dead.

*

There are only two people for whom J.A.R.V.I.S. would risk Tony’s wrath, so when Van Halen’s “Runnin’ With The Devil” cuts out in the middle of the guitar solo, either Pepper’s had a change of heart or she’s sent Rhodey to check up on him.

“I thought you took your orders from men with stars on their shoulders,” Tony quips, busying his hands with a wrench. He sets it down when he realizes it’s the one from his father’s lab. “Pepper called, didn’t she?”

Rhodey crosses his arms. “She’s worried about you, Tony.”

“Is she now,” Tony grouses. He looks Rhodey dead in the eye. “Because she left without saying goodbye.” _Yeah, you look away._ “I thought maybe she’d gloss over that part.”

“Where’s Banner?” Rhodey wants to know. “Pepper said he’d be here.”

“J.A.R.V.I.S., pull up the schematics for the Mach IX.”

“Jesus, Tony, how many suits are you planning - ”

“Packing,” Tony interrupts. “Dr. Banner is probably packing. Did Pepper not tell you?” This time, he doesn’t wait for Rhodey to react. “Yeah, she offered him a job. He’s going to be heading up biomedical research for Stark Industries. Leaves tonight.” Tony stares at the hologram. What the suit needs is extra repulsors. “Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

Rhodey runs a thumb along the seam of his mouth. “You have people, Tony.”

“Only, maybe you haven’t noticed, they’ve all left.” He’d found a note from Steve on the kitchen counter, thanking Tony for his hospitality but saying he was needed elsewhere. At least he left a note. Natasha and Clint had all but disappeared, like they were never there at all.

“You sure you didn’t drive them off?” When Tony doesn’t answer, Rhodey scoffs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. We can’t help if you won’t let us, Tony.”

“What makes you so sure I need your help?” Tony challenges, picking up the wrench again.

“Fine,” says an exasperated Rhodey. _“Fine.”_ He starts to turn, then shakes his head. “No, not fine. Why do you have to be this way, Tony, huh? Because keep it up, and you’re going to lose Pepper. Is that a price you’re willing to pay?”

“Pepper’s her own person,” Tony bites off. “She can’t be bought or sold.” He yanks his protective goggles over his eyes. “J.A.R.V.I.S., music.”

“Unbelievable,” Rhodey mutters. His back is military-straight as he leaves the lab, but he might as well have his shoulders slumped in defeat.

 _You’re not the one who failed, Rhodey._ He’d asked how many suits Tony planned to build. _An iron legion. As many as it takes to feel safe._

That’s all Tony had been trying to do when everything went so horribly wrong. Stash a phalanx of tin soldiers in the basement, and maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t have to call up the Avengers when aliens invaded next. Tony had no way of knowing there was a time machine down there. And his father, he’d laughed.

Howard had sent his dear friends some 60-odd years into the future, and he’d laughed.

It’s picturing his trademark smirk that finally sets Tony off. He stalks over to the ’47 Buick Super and slams the wrench down as hard as he can, denting the hood. He swings it again. A window shatters. Tony swings it again, and again, and again, until the windshield cracks, the headlights explode, his own blood streaks the seats. It’s only when the garage floor is littered with glass and debris, only when he’s done enough damage to wipe the smug smile off Howard’s face, that Tony lets the wrench fall from his hand, sinking slowly to his knees.

* * *

**WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME IF THE CLOCKS COULD GO BACKWARD?**

directed by [em2mb](http://em2mb.tumblr.com)  
written by [em2mb](http://archiveofourown.org/users/em2mb/pseuds/em2mb)  
produced by [frommybookbook](http://frommybookbook.tumblr.com)

starring  
Bruce Banner ... MARK RUFFALO  
Tony Stark ... ROBERT DOWNEY JR.  
Pepper Potts ... GWYNETH PALTROW  
Steve Rogers ... CHRIS EVANS  
Daniel Sousa ... ENVER GJOKAJ  
Peggy Carter ... HAYLEY ATWELL  
Edwin Jarvis ... JAMES D’ARCY  
Ana Jarvis ... LOTTE VERBEEK  
Howard Stark ... DOMINIC COOPER  
Natasha Romanoff ... SCARLETT JOHANSSON  
Clint Barton ... JEREMY RENNER  
Rose Roberts ... LESLEY BOONE  
Aloysius Samberly ... MATT BRAUNGER  
Sen. Boynton ... JAMES ECKHOUSE  
Sam Wilson ... ANTHONY MACKIE  
Agent Koenig ... PATTON OSWALT  
Harold “Happy” Hogan ... JON FAVREAU  
Col. James “Rhodey” Rhodes ... DON CHEADLE

with special appearances by  
PAUL BETTANY  
and  
SAMUEL L. JACKSON as Fury, Nicholas J.

director of photography  
You, the reader

production designer  
Archive Of Our Own

editor  
[lazaefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazaefair/pseuds/lazaefair)

associate producers  
[amara-lorena](http://amara-lorena.tumblr.com)  
[agent-aurelie](http://agent-aurelie.tumblr.com)

* * *

“Would you just - ” Rumlow snaps. He clenches his jaw. Fine. He’ll delegate. “Wong, Aguila, go secure the perimeter. You too, Miller. Skomo, see if forensics needs anything. Who’s that leave? Put your hand down, Byers, and get the hell out of my sight.” Rumlow claps his hands. “C’mon, you heard Fury. No one needs to know the Avengers were here. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” He waits until the other agents have scattered before muttering under his breath, “Special Tactical Reserve for International Key Emergencies, my ass.” Some days he swears he’s herding cats.

His comms piece clicks twice - not S.H.I.E.L.D., but the _other_ line. Secretary Pierce chuckles in his ear. “Agent Rumlow,” he says, “I hear Director Fury’s entrusted you with a _very_ special task.”

Rumlow snorts, kicking a broken balustrade with his toe. “If that’s what you call mopping up after the stars and stripes. I assume you’re calling with a mission?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s a mission. More ... routine counterintelligence retrieval? Easy peasy.”

 _I’ll be the judge of that, fuck you very much._ If there’s anything Rumlow can’t stand, it’s when administrators like Pierce act like they have a goddamn clue about fieldwork. But the task itself does seem pretty straightforward: find and search an old desk. The secret hidey-hole behind a bookcase isn’t so secret when a trail of blood leads right to it.

“Say, Pierce,” asks Rumlow as he checks the desk drawers for false bottoms, “are the rumors true? Because judging by the carnage, Captain America’s going to need his own clean-up crew. There’s nothing here, by the way.”

“Keep searching.”

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “Still nothing.” It’s all he can do to keep from huffing a sigh.

“Check again,” Pierce orders.

That’s when Rumlow sees the scrap of paper wadded up in the back of the desk drawer. “Wait,” he tells Pierce. “I might have something.” Carefully, so it doesn’t tear, Rumlow works the paper free. “It’s some kind of drawing. Blueprint, maybe? Looks like it’s for some sort of machine.” His eyes locate a single word. “Trans- translocation?” he reads. “Mean anything to you?” The paper is yellow with age. Whatever it is, whatever it was, it’s probably obsolete now.

“Actually, Agent Rumlow, it does,” says Pierce. He sounds pleased. “You know what I’m going to do for you? I’m going to make sure Captain Rogers gets assigned to your team. See that Sitwell gets that piece of paper, will you?”

“That’s not what - ”

But the line’s already gone dead. Rumlow stares at the drawing for a few more seconds. _There._ He holds the crumpled paper up to the light so he can read the smudge that must’ve rubbed off another long-lost page.

_Howard Stark 1949_

“Hail, Hydra,” Rumlow mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. OK. After six months, it’s finally finished! I couldn’t have done it without the support of my wonderful betas, [frommybookbook](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frommybookbook/pseuds/frommybookbook) and [lazaefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazaefair/pseuds/lazaefair), or the super supportive Agent Carter fandom, or the Clintasha readers I picked up along the way.
> 
> What’s next? Watch [Tumblr](http://em2mb.tumblr.com).
> 
> But ...
> 
> Agent Carter fans, my to-write list is several pages long. It’s safe to say you have some mission fic I’ve been dying to write FOR MONTHS coming your way.
> 
> Clintasha fans, if you’re interested in what happens after Clocks, good news: I’ll write it if you’ll read it. How *did* our two favorite assassins spend the next two weeks?
> 
> Thank you all.


End file.
